Terran Ingenuity
by Xeno Major
Summary: The Great Wars are over. Jim Raynor and his men have left the Koprulu Sector behind, choosing to settle a world away from that sector of space. Unfortunately, the colony of Shanxi is not safe; hostile aliens have invaded, intent on controlling the Terrans and their bizarre technology. Unfortunately for the Turians, the Terrans have experience fighting hostile alien invaders.
1. Chapter 1

The dusty old bar was packed to the brim when Jim arrived, tired after a long day's work. As soon as he pushed past the swinging doors, cheers erupted from the regulars, and somebody was quickly handing him a drink.

"No, fellas." Jim refused good-naturedly, with a slight grin of humor. "I _told_ you before, I pay for my drinks the same as anyone else."

"Not in my establishment you don't!" the bartender called back over the noise of the crowd. "As long as you don't shoot my screen!"

"One time!" Jim roared back humorously, as the bar erupted into laughter. "_One time_ I shoot the screen, Joey, and you're never gonna let me forget it!"

Jim took his usual seat at the bar and exchanged greetings with the other customers as the ancient, battered jukebox in the corner starts playing.

The worn wooden furniture complemented the warm and friendly atmosphere, and for a brief moment, Jim smiled basking in the glow.

Then the antique jukebox's repetition of 'Sweet Home Alabama' scratched, as somebody cut the record off at the source.

A few people protested, hollering at the offender to put the damn record back on, but the next moment, everyone in the bar fell silent as the vid-screen turned to the image of a grim-faced reporter alongside the image of a bizarre looking spacecraft.

_"…no clear identification for the aliens, which match no known ship profiles. I repeat, we have unidentified alien battleships in high orbit over Shanxi_."

"…_shit_," someone whispered, as a dropped glass of beer shattered on the floor.

"_…General Maxwell has declared martial law,_" the reporter continued. "_All civilians are to proceed immediately to the nearest bunker, while all members of the militia are ordered to gear up. We don't yet know if the contacts are hos-_"

Static raced across the screen for a brief moment, and then the image focuses on a live camera feed of a burning building.

"- _the barracks are gone! The entire base is-_"

Once more, the screen cut out into static, and the signal did not return.

"…Maybe it's the signal?" one of the customer suggested weakly, his frightened face lit up by the nervous puffing of his cigarette.

"That wasn't a dropped signal – that was the broadcast getting cut. Orbital bombardment, most likely." Jim observed, his confidant voice filling the nervous bar.

Standing up, Jim drained his whiskey in one go and placed the glass back on the bar. As he turned around, every eye in the bar was focused on him.

"Well?" Jim demanded passionately, looking at each of the men in turn. "What're you boys waiting for?"

At his penetrating words, the bar exploded into action, as men grabbed their rifles and their coats, dropping money on the table as they readied for war.

"I'll tell you what, boys," Jim continued, his sure voice carrying throughout the bar. "We've survived the Great Wars, the Swarm, and all the other horrors that this galaxy has to throw at us. If these aliens want a war, then we'll give 'em war!"

The jaded frontiersmen of Shanxi roared their approval as they charged out of the bar to their vehicles, an eclectic mix of modified trucks, ex-military Vulture hoverbikes, and more than a few 'technically decommissioned' AH/G-24's and A2 Armored Mechanical Hybrids, more commonly known as Banshees and Vikings.

Though many thought of him as a war hero, Jim Raynor still thought of himself as a Marshall, and as he strode out of Joeyray's Bar, it was with this in mind.

And as far as the established procedure went, when hostile aliens came to invade, the Marshall was to defend his land. He should know, he established that procedure when the Zerg attacked Mar Sara.

So, as Raynor fired up his old Vulture, he opened up a comm. channel to one of his few surviving friends, so that he could do just that.

* * *

In high orbit above the planet, the commander of the Turian Hierarchy's fleet stood alone, silently contemplating the scenario before him.

An unknown species had been discovered violating Citadel Law by activating a dormant Mass Relay.

Naturally, he and his men had immediately destroyed the two vessels, though they had lost a surprising number of ships to the long-range _laser-batteries_ that one of the ships had born. The losses of the fleet had been communicated to Palaven Command, and action was swiftly taken.

Palaven had detached a dedicated pacification fleet immediately, and so the turians had followed the Relay to the 'Terran' world, and found that the fleshy beings known as 'Terrans' had barely colonized this rugged world, indicating that they had a homeworld elsewhere.

It made his plates itch just to _think_ about that arrogance that these Terrans had, just charging off into space in ramshackle, primitive looking ships.

The turians themselves had been cautious when they had first started exploring space, but these Terrans seemed to be stupid enough to charge straight ahead without even _contemplating _the _possibilities._

It said enough about Terran capabilities that the Terrans only had a few lightly armed scout-ships in orbit around their world, barely recognizable as fighter-craft, much less as proper spacecraft.

No, General Oraka reflected self-assuredly, it was better that the Terrans become a client race of the Turian Hierarchy, for their own protection.

But _off the record_, Oraka was much more interested in the original method that these Terrans had used to achieve FTL, as well as the _functional laser weapons_, as both were feats of technological genius that were (for the moment) beyond the Council races own tech. The records analyzed from the first ship, a more bulbous civilian (possibly research) vessel, had indicated that planet 'Earth' (a quite unoriginal name) was their homeworld, but also that _none _of their technology used Eezo._** None!**_

If the Turian Hierarchy could seize control of this new FTL method, then they could gain a massive advantage over the other Citadel races. They had already pulled the wrecked laser-batteries off the destroyed cruiser, but their FTL engines had not survived the brief skirmish.

But if they were to reap the full benefits of this harvest, then they would have to subjugate this species quickly, before the Council got wind of their discovery.

"General Kuril, you have permission to land your forces." Oraka broadcast fleet-wide over the comm. network. "Your orders are to pacify and contain this world."

"Understood, General." Kuril confirmed, as turian troops across the fleet heard their words.

Soon, Oraka thought, they would have this species under control, and his men would all be able to return home as conquering heroes.

* * *

"Commander, I want anti-air _now!_" Kuril barked at his subaltern, as the infernal Terran ships began _yet another_ bombing run on the turian's rooftop command post.

"We can't shoot if we can't see them, General!" the commander yelled back, his irritability at the situation leaking through in his tone.

"Then shoot the sky around the missiles and _pray!_" Kuril roared furiously. "Use suppressive fire if you have to, those gunships can't take more than few hits anyway!"

Things had been going so well, at first.

The landing had gone smoothly, as the orbital bombardment of every military asset had supposedly destroyed all possible resistance.

The Terrans themselves appeared a small species, comparable in height to the asari, and therefore inferior to the turians in terms of height and musculature, and appeared to be an easily cowed species.

Kuril had even boasted to his troops that the pacification campaign would only take a week, a sure-fire tactic to get the morale of his men up.

They'd even compromised the Terran comm. network and language, providing a wealth of information that had only boosted their confidence, such as the fact that these Terrans were not regular troops, but a hastily-organized militia.

Tall suits of powered armor (dubbed 'Marines') had suddenly burst out of several of the Terran buildings surrounding the landing sight, firing primitive boxy rifles at the platoons of turian troops.

Though momentarily stalled at the resistance, the turians' technological superiority had the advantage, as mass accelerator rounds were somewhat capable of penetrating the Terran power armor, though the amount of armor these troops wore was staggering. Several of the marines had some sort of heavy-duty riot shield, which proved somewhat more frustrating to take down.

Because of that, the main problem came from putting _enough_ rounds into the armor to put them down _permanently_. A turian squad had left cover after downing their opponents, believing them dead, only for the Marines to open fire _again_, despite being near dead.

Yet another incident had occurred when a Terran Marine, despite missing his left arm to an explosive, had killed two turian troopers with _punches. _Their advanced-yet-primitive (a previously impossible notion that _only_ the Terrans could have achieved) power armor appeared to augment physical strength to a degree beyond even most Krogan.

Some reports had come in speculating about the use of combat drugs to ignore injuries and enhance physical endurance, but Kuril couldn't afford to waste time analyzing what limited toxicology scans he had.

And the Terran's odd rifles didn't help things. His troops had thought them primitive at first, primarily because they fired absurdly large 'spikes' as ammunition.

But though their kinetic barriers were effective at stopping the spikes, the moment that barrier dropped the turian would be riddled with spikes, of which even _one_ could instantly kill.

Luckily, his troops were experienced enough to move smoothly between pieces of cover as they battled their way out of the spaceport and into the city proper, giving the Terrans little opportunity to hit them.

But the Terran's infantry doctrine seemed to be unusually well suited for destroying shielded troops, focusing their fire on selected troops before moving on to the next one.

From the holograms of the firefights, Kuril had seen the Terrans select their groupings very quickly, suggesting either a sophisticated squad-level VI (which he doubted, given the Terran's tech level) or long experience fighting shield-equipped foes.

But if they had experience in fighting opponents with kinetic barriers, then why didn't _they_ have any kinetic barriers? Surely they could reverse engineer even the simplest of barriers; mass effect technology was highly adaptable, after all.

The first indication that something was _really_ wrong was when the Terrans VTOL gunships had started making bombing runs, spraying their payload of missiles and clusters of rockets down on exposed infantry and tanks.

The turians had brought vehicle support, of course, and turian fighters and anti-air emplacements had started chewing up the lightly armored Terran gunships (so-called 'Banshees') easily, when the damn things just _disappeared_.

Kuril had been watching one such Terran fighter, a three-pronged craft (which was identified as an outdated 'Wraith' fighter) with Spirits-damned _laser weapons_, when the craft literally _disappeared before his eyes_.

Stunned, Kuril demanded answers from his intelligence officers, only to be stunned as the officer had hesitantly pronounced that the Terrans had _functional cloaking technology._

The scanners aboard the larger turian dropships and spacecraft could penetrate the guise to pinpoint the enemy fighter-craft at a close enough range, but their own fighters were getting lured out of sensor range and then swarmed by large numbers of cloaked ships.

Granted, they could shoot down any cloaked ship that had penetrated their lines, but the remaining Terran fighters now mostly hung back and harassed their turian counterparts.

And then the damned _tanks_ had started showing up.

Turians had tanks, of course, but those were nimble craft that were designed for fast-paced warfare on unsteady ground, whereas these Terran tanks were hulking, house-sized masses of death seemed to be straight out of the Unification Wars!

The damnable things also seemed to function as localized artillery, as one unfortunate platoon had found out when they'd pushed through one bomb-wrecked street, only to wander straight into a killzone; the unlucky soldiers had been annihilated by a barrage of shells from the tanks just one street over.

They could handle the tanks, of course, with a careful application of VI-drone scouting elements to pinpoint the vehicles for pinpoint orbital bombardment, and so far they'd wiped out an enormous amount of these tanks through this method.

"Spirits," Kuril muttered under his breath as he watched a dug-in turian platoon open fire on a group of Marines in a wrecked school through his holo-screen, before retreating and calling in another orbital strike. "At this rate, we'll have to flatten the entire city."

Fortunately, aside from the unusual artillery tanks and the power armor, these Terrans seemed fragile enough to break with repeated attacks.

Worse yet, the well-established strategy of a combined arms approach with a slower, but more thorough movement was falling apart, and Kuril had been forced to desperately shift units around far too quickly, without the necessary support.

Whereas a traditional platoon advance included drones calling in orbital fire on hard-points and vehicles to guard the main infantry approach, Kuril had quickly discovered that such slow, ponderous columns of movement along the hazardous streets were vulnerable to the Terran's preferred artillery bombardment.

To compensate, he'd ordered the infantry to advance more quickly, leaving the vehicles to slowly trundle behind in the ruinous debris of an urban battlefield. The result was a riskier, but far more rapid strategy that seemed to be effective.

Luckily for Kuril, the Terrans anti-air capabilities seemed highly limited, and his scouting drones had had almost free reign over the battlefield. The Terran fightercraft seemed to be to busy dealing with the turians own fighters or their armor, and static missile defenses had been destroyed in the first orbital bombardment. Apparently, the Terrans were resorting to attempting to shoot down the drones with nothing but rifles, but the mobility of the drones combined with poor accuracy rendered that an ineffective tactic at best.

Five minutes later, Kuril's strategy seemed to be paying off, as the turians continued to isolate pockets of scattered resistance. Furthermore, the well-oiled turian war machine's superior communications and coordination were allowing them to shift units back and forth as necessary, trapping many leaderless units and leading others into orbital bombardment.

The platoon-level autonomy of his infantry did an effective job of giving his men the initiative to call in orbital strikes, leaving time for his tanks and air support to clinically eradicate the enemy's own limited armor and fighters.

Add in the fact that that there couldn't be more than four million Terrans on this entire planet, and General Kuril was feeling very confidant about the Turian Hierarchy's future control of these Terrans.

Which is, of course, about the point that the Spirits decided to make things even harder for Kuril.

After seeing the power armor, the cloaking technology, and the siege-tanks, Kuril was slightly less surprised when three of the Terrans atmospheric fighters (of the non-cloaked variety) dipped dangerously close to his command post, it's wing tips almost touching the turian anti-air emplacements as it hurtled precariously past them on screaming engines.

Turian anti-air fire immediately downed one of the fighters before it could get off a single missile, while the second fighter managed to let loose four missiles from its racks, engulfing a hovertank in a ball of fire before it too was shot down.

Of course, Kuril reflected, it wasn't surprising that some of the human pilots were lunatics, given the desperation of defending one's home, be it a colony or not.

But General Kuril had _not_ been expecting the last remaining fighter-craft to suddenly cut its engines, plummet to the ground using only minimal thrusters for safety, and then _transform_ _into a Spirit-damned mechanized walker!_

Said walker had landed incredibly close to the General's command post, and had proceeded to open fire with twin automatic cannons, which quickly shredded any turian infantry before they could open fire on the damn thing!

The walker retreated just a few moments later, transforming again and blasted off at maximum speed, before anything heavier than one lone rifle could shoot at it. Kuril grimaced in distaste at the transforming fighter-walker monstrosity - who in their right minds designed such a bizarre machine?

"These Terrans are cowards," Captain Denarius remarked scathingly as the Viking retreated. "Rather than do their duty, they flee for their lives!"

"The fact that we haven't conquered this city yet says something for their courage, _Captain_." Commander Adrien Victus commented sharply, reprimanding the young Captain with a harsh glare.

"Worse, now the Terrans know that we can't stop their walkers from landing wherever they _damn well_ _please_. Increase defensive firepower; those hybrid fighters can't be that well armored due to their design. If the Terrans try that trick again, we'll blow them out of the sky."

General Kuril ignored the chatter of his command staff, focusing instead on the communications transmitter before him. The transmitter was currently hooked up to the central Terran comm. line, translated into turian by the device's VI.

The usual squabbling babble of the disorganized and chaotic Terran forces had abruptly been silenced a moment earlier, and a single voice had started speaking, indicating the first sign of unified authority that Kuril had seen. Perhaps it was a survivor from the garrison that they'd bombarded initially?

"…_Repeat, this is Jim Raynor calling for all Terran forces to keep…"_

Kuril leaned in closer, turning up the volume, but the back and forth talk of the other comm. operators as they coordinated units kept distracting him, making him miss words.

"Quiet!" Kuril ordered with a snap of command, silencing the command post as he listened in to the transmission of this 'Jim Raynor' of the Terrans.

"…_can't say I know who or what these alien bastards are, but frankly, I don't care. We came to Shanxi to start a colony away from the blood and the war of the Koprulu Sector, but it looks like our luck had other ideas."_

"Record this transmission!" Kuril snapped at the closest comm. tech, as he listened. "Now! He's telling us everything!"

_"I don't know much, but I do know that we've fought enough tyrants already."_ Raynor continued, his voice strong and confidant, the sign of a true leader. _"Whatever reason these aliens have for attacking us is pointless; I'm not keen on anyone attacking innocents, and these bastards bombed us without provocation."_

_"This is __**our**__ home, and if these bastards want it, then I say we give 'em the same response we gave the Zerg!"_

* * *

"You see 'em?" demanded the youth, just barely big enough for his blue CMC-armor as he hid in cover inside a rugged metal-walled store, ducked down behind the neo-steel wall.

The squad of Marines was a mixed bunch, their CMC-armor decorated with a variety of colors and markings, but they all gripped their rifles with a blend of nervous tension and the ease of long experience. It'd been a long time since Vittorio Esposito had fired an Impaler in anger, and the movements came back to him with an all-too frightening ease.

Thought most of these Marines were veterans of the long wars of the past decade, a few younger boys, like the one who had spoken up, had been quickly press-ganged into the militia upon the arrival of the invaders, and their inexperience was quickly shown, especially compared to the grim silence of the older men.

As if to answer the boy's question, a half-dozen shots punched through the decorative wooden panels and windows of the storefront, sending light debris and dust amongst the squad hiding behind the much more sturdy neo-steel sections.

"Yeah, Jones, now shut up!" Esposito ordered irritably as he quickly poked his head out from the lip of the bar counter to glance down the debris-strewn street, while the sounds of chattering Impalers overlapping with the faint **boom** of explosions echoed throughout the city.

Almost immediately, Esposito spotted the eight bird-like aliens some twenty yards down the road.

Six birds were clustered inside another building, sending frighteningly accurate fire at the entrenched squad of Marines, pinning them in place. The other two birds carefully moving from cover to cover with lithe, agile motions, darting ever closer.

The two birds rushed between a few abandoned trucks as they moved closer, and Esposito swore at the speed that these bastards could move at.

Still, while that light armor might be good for their agility, it couldn't be as protective as full CMC plate. It'd be hard to wear down the birds shields, but once you got past that, a few spikes would put the birds down for good.

"Alright, listen up!" Esposito barked over the comm. as he pulled his head back in. "We got two birds running down the street. Davis, Broacher, put some suppressive fire down on the larger group. The kid and I'll take out the runners before they toss in a grenade."

"Alien birds or not, everything dies with enough spikes in 'em!" Davis commented brashly, drawing nods from Jones and Broecker.

Esposito held up his gauntlet with a three-fingered countdown as the fire from the aliens started to peter down. The other Marines tightened their grips on their Impalers, shifting around behind their minimal neo-steel cover.

"Now!" Esposito barked over the comm. link, forming his hand into a close fist.

Davis and Broecker swung out of cover simultaneously, raking the other building with about thirty spikes a second each, a punishing rate of fire.

Esposito and Jones popped up quickly, knowing that they only had six seconds before the covering Impalers ran out of ammo.

Esposito panned his rifle hurriedly across the street, spitting concentrated fire down on the lone bird in the open, who he'd caught just as it was dashing towards a piece of neo-steel debris.

The bird stumbled as its shields activated, giving Esposito enough time to shift his aim onto its upper chest, the center of mass.

Frantically, the bird scrambled forward, diving for cover, but its shields broke with a visible flash as it did, and Esposito sprayed spikes across it, hitting it at least eight times.

The bird slumped as it hit the ground, where it lay, unmoving.

Just to be sure, Esposito gave it another burst, shoving the corpse back with a jerk as a dozen spikes ripped into its back.

Esposito didn't look to see if Jones had killed the second runner, ducking back under cover immediately as Davis and Broecker's Impalers ran dry.

"I got him!" Jones whooped over the comm. jubilantly, his youth evident in his voice. "Did'ja see, boss, I-"

A sudden barrage of rounds from all six remaining birds smashed through Jones' armor, cutting him off. The rounds punctured kid's front armor, slicing through neo-steel with reduced, but still lethal velocity.

The _squelch _of flesh and bone being pulped into nothing rang out over the comm. link, the first time that Esposito had heard it since they'd left the Koprulu Sector.

For the first time in four years, Esposito felt rage at the loss of a comrade, a feeling that he thought he had left behind in Koprulu, the all consuming red tinting the edges of his sight.

"Kill 'em!" Esposito roared furiously, standing up and spraying automatic Impaler fire wildly at the birds.

"Get _down_, Vito!" Davis yelled, sprinting towards him.

Davis's thundering charge bowled Esposito over, tackling him back into cover, but it was too late. As Davis knocked Esposito into safety, a burst of_ something_ struck his suit, knocking all of its systems off-line.

The EMP-overload shut the suit down completely, locking Davis upright and out of cover, in full view of the birds.

Davis desperately tried to reboot his armor, but a burst of well-aimed shots nailed his visor, killing him instantly. The shots knocked the immobile Marine over, sending a tremor of noise and vibrations through the wrecked storefront with a thudding **BOOM**.

Esposito struggled to get back up, wrestling his awkward armor as Broecker returned fire on the advancing aliens.

Just as Esposito had gotten to his knees, Impaler in hand, he heard the telltale _tink-tink _of metallic ringing, impossibly loud despite the roar of Broecker's Impaler.

"_Grenade!_" Esposito screamed, lunging away from the numerous small alien discs.

Broecker dove to the side, but the grenades detonated while he was in mid-air, mangling his CMC-armor up and shredding the flesh underneath.

Esposito took multiple gashes from the flying shrapnel, the purpose-designed fragments from the half-dozen grenades slicing open his armor and stabbing red-hot _pain_ into his body.

His vision swayed, and Esposito fought to stay conscious as his ears pounded and his lungs tightened up.

Coughing, his warm blood coating the inner rim of his visor, Esposito sluggishly nudged the emergency release button with his chin, which in turn lifted his visor. A blast of cold, chill air washed over his sweaty, overheated face, giving a slight shock to his numb skin.

Perhaps it was the fact that he'd spent the last two hours seeing through an orange HUD, but the world outside seemed maddeningly serene, tinged with blue light. His eyes worked to overcome the visual adaptation, but all Esposito could think about was how peaceful the destroyed storefront looked.

The tables and displays had all been savaged by weapons fire, and scraps of neo-steel lay on the ground, chipped off of the dead Marine's armor by the explosion.

A layer of dust, disturbed by the grenades detonation, had settled over everything, giving it an ethereal appearance, as if the bloody vista had been plucked from history and brought to life in this quiet street.

Just as Esposito's eyes began to droop down, close to closing permanently, there came the sound of walking, armored boots _clicking _as they stepped over the dusty concrete and neo-steel.

Fighting to maintain consciousness, Esposito watched as the alien birds slowly came into sight, clutching their rifles close as they edged carefully around the massive form of Jones, nudging his CMC-suit almost comically with their taloned feet.

The squad of birds spread out with quiet efficiency, checking on the bodies of his dead squadmates. One of the birds stalked closer to him, its rifle held loosely and easily, the wariness of combat tension gone from the creature.

It stepped up to him, bending down to inspect the Impaler by his side, when its curious helmet suddenly jerked upwards, staring straight at his exposed face.

"_Fuck_..._you_..." Esposito whispered, the very effort of speaking sending hot needles of pain into his chest.

With the last of his strength, Esposito painfully moved his hand, thumbing a disused button on the underside of his palm.

Awareness and power raced through Esposito's veins, the chemical cocktail of the stimpack activating the last reserves of adrenaline and dopamine in his system. In a few seconds, the cocktail would use up the last of his body's energy, killing him, but for these brief moments, Esposito felt _**alive**_.

The bird pulled back at the sight of Esposito's movement, starting to squawk something to its squadmates, but as it moved away, Esposito _moved_.

His arm, clad in the neo-steel of CMC armor, snatched the bird's rifle, crushing the little toy-like gun with the close of a hand.

The bird realized instantly the danger that it was in, but Esposito's other hand had closed on its leg, yanking it down onto the ground, smacking it down with a _**crump.**_

The bird's squadmates jumped at the noise, having already turned to fact Esposito at their squadmates squawking. They raised their rifles, about to open fire, but before they could get off a single shot, Esposito smashed his fist onto the trapped birds helmet, crunching the metal and electronics and rending the bird's plate-like head into pulpy goo.

As the birds opened fire on his dying body, Esposito died giving them a howling roar, unable to feel the dozens of impacts as the stimpack took his pain and his life.

The birds took no chances after that, liberally spraying the corpses with fire, just in case one of them decided to register a complaint about their invasion.

It was just then that another squad of Terran Marines stumbled onto the birds, whilst they were shooting up the dead bodies of their comrades.

The first two Marines reacted swiftly, applying suppressive fire on the birds while they were still out of cover. The Marines behind them ducked into the meager cover that the street offered, popping up to rattle off bursts of fire to keep the birds suppressed while the first two Marines dove for cover.

The birds lobbed out a few grenades blindly, and even though they didn't land near the Marines, they got the Terrans to duck into cover, allowing the Birds to start firing back.

Near the back of the formation, Sergeant Fred Jax was stuck behind the corner of a building, half inside an alleyway. Jax swore at the fact, annoyed that he was stuck this far back, when any good sergeant should be up in the front, leading the squad.

"Jax!" another voice called, as the **thumping** boot steps of a set of CMC-armor approached.

Glancing up, Jax let up a rare smile as the black CMC-armor of Jim Raynor dropped down beside him.

"Commander! We got six birds in that store!" Jax reported as Raynor's visor slid open, revealing the sweaty and grim face of the Marshall.

Raynor took a quick peek at the mostly exposed street, his eyes sweeping over the wrecked trucks and metal debris with long experience, ducking back inside as the birds took a few potshots at him.

The light _brt-brt-brt_ of the birds' rifles fire was only faintly detectable over the _BATA-BATA-BATA _of the Terran's chattering Impalers, at least to Raynor's ears. For a moment, he ignored that information.

"Alright, here's what we do." Raynor told the squad over the comm. as he took command. "We've got the weight of numbers here, so let's get some alternating cover fire. Ol' man Jefferies will start us off with a few bursts to get their heads down, then y'all will keep up that coverage while the rest of us move up."

"No problem, Marshall." Jefferies confirmed in response. "Just like back on Antiga Prime, remember Jax?"

"I remember being on the _other _side of that particular battle, rebel punk." Jax retorted humorously, tapping the white paint of his faded Confederate Alpha Squadron paintjob in response.

"Now, now, boys, let's focus on the birds, alright?" Raynor chided lightly, the slight twitching of his lips betraying his amusement at the two Marines' antics.

From his position in the middle of the street, Jefferies lifted his Impaler over the lip of his neo-steel barrier and sprayed blind fire over the edge, holding down the trigger until all two-hundred spikes had been blasted at the enemy, making the neo-steel exterior of the storefront look conspicuously similar to a pincushion.

"Let's move up on my mark…" Raynor commanded, nodding to Jax and sealing his distinctive death's head visor. "_Mark!_"

Dashing around the corner, Raynor opened fire on the run as he sprinted for a crushed car, Impaler spikes howling into the building while Jax's squad gives him supporting fire.

Wisps of smoke curled and danced through the street from the burning truck off to the side, but visibility wasn't an issue.

Now a little closer, under the cover of a neo-steel support pillar left over from the destruction of the barracks, Raynor took a moment to catch his breath and try to get a better read on the situation.

As the Marines and the birds traded fire back and forth, Raynor thought he noticed a pattern, like…

…like the birds were firing slower than the Marines.

"Jefferies, how fast are the birds shooting at you?" Raynor questioned, a plan starting to come together in his head.

"Not that fast, Boss. Don't know if it's 'cause of their guns or cause of _them_, though." Jefferies reported, reloading his Impaler with mechanical precision as he answered his Marshall.

"Right then boys, this is what we do." Raynor called out to his squad. "We've got the edge in rate of fire. I wanted heavy suppressive fire on the birds, full-auto. It'll be ammo intensive, but it'll give us the freedom to maneuver. If you're not suppressing the enemy, then move around until you can get a clean line of fire."

"And then we stick 'em full of spikes?" Corporal Vega asked aggressively, his anger raised by the invasion.

"Then we kill 'em." Raynor confirmed, checking his ammo count as he spoke. "So let's get to it!"

Jax popped out of cover, his Impaler chattering in his hands as he raked controlled fire over the storefront, panning his rifle to keep the entire squad of birds suppressed. Two more of Jax's Marines joined him, effortlessly coordinating their fire.

"Light 'em up!" Raynor yelled as he stood up, his boots **booming** as he charged closer, his spitting Impaler lending fire support to the other Marines.

Raynor made it all the way to the side of the building, smashing through the flimsy wooden door without missing a step. The birds reacted to the noise, but Raynor was already hosing them down with spikes, taking cover behind a neo-steel pillar supporting the flimsy metal roof.

He lined up the first alien in sight, which was visible from the waist up as it fired at Jax. Without any hesitation, Raynor opened fire, a burst of five spikes stopping dead on the alien's flashing energy shields. The second burst was longer, a full barrage of 8mm spikes slamming smack into the alien's upper chest.

The alien's shields sparked and flashed, but halfway through the burst they failed, and the bird dropped to ground with no less than fifteen spikes in his torso.

As Raynor ducked back down into cover, he caught a glimpse of another bird practically exploding as it was lit up by three Impalers, with blood spraying behind it onto the beat-up bar behind it.

The remaining four birds died much faster, as the Marine's fire grouped up on them, perforating their bodies with Impaler spikes.

The furious noise of combat died down as the Marines ceased fire, trooping inside the building.

Raynor trod over to the forms of Esposito's squad, his face grim as he slowly and respectfully rolled each suit of armor over. One by one, he lifted the squad's visors, gently pulling away their dog tags.

When he reached the last suit of armor, he paused to reflect on the black CMC armor of the dead man, the sign of his lost homeworld.

It could be him lying there, Raynor knew. It could have been him lying broken and battered, had their positions been reversed.

Raynor extended a gauntlet to lift the visor, and took in one last look at his good friend, Vittorio Esposito, one of the last men from his original colonial militia.

Gently, he pulled away Esposito's dog tags, saying one last goodbye for the son of Mar Sara.

"Grab whatever ammo you can from dead!" Raynor ordered, burying his rage as he turned to face the immediate situation. "We're leaving now!"

"You heard the Commander, boys, get moving!" Jax snapped, taking charge easily with his experience as an ex-Confederate non-com. "On the double! Jackson, you're on point! _Move it_ _Marines_!"

The militia squad quickly trooped down the street at a comfortable running pace, but Raynor was running on autopilot, his thoughts more focused on the impending orbital bombardment than on running away.

Logically, there was no way that these aliens could fail to annihilate their group from orbit. Any moment now, there would be a descending strike from an orbiting-

The dull trilling of a comm. signal pulled Raynor out of his thoughts. A quick glance at the comm. icon and a few intentional blinks opened the channel.

"Talk to me." Raynor said, his tone unemotional and professional, even in light of this disaster.

"I can't leave you alone for more than a week without you finding some kind of trouble, can I Commander?" asked the reassuring voice of Matthew Horner, Captain of the _Hyperion_.

"Matt!" Raynor returned warmly. "Damn glad to hear from you; we've gotten ourselves into a bit of a scrap here, any chance you and your boys could do something about that?"

"Of course, Commander." Horner replied. "When I got the emergency broadcast, I recalled every cruiser assigned to recon, colonization, and mining operations. About half of them are too far out, and they're going to take a few hours to arrive, but I'm on approach with around half of the fleet. We'll swing by and drop off some help."

"Much appreciated, Matt." Raynor thanked, smiling underneath his visor as the squad trooped into a mostly untouched market, the pointman simply jogging _through_ the flimsy wooden doors.

"No problem, but can you tell me how the hell this all happened? Where's Giffords? What happened to the _Admonisher_ and the _Magellan_?"

"No idea, Matt." Raynor grunted as he piped the transmission to the rest of his squad. "You know I'm not in charge any more."

"Fair enough," Horner allowed, as a few voices in the background started chiming in with readiness reports. "Here, I'm linking the broadcast to every comm. system I can access. Why don't you say a few words for the men, give them something to fight for?"

"One of these days, Matt, I'm gonna _make _you give a speech instead of delegatin' it to me." Raynor chided, as Horner chuckled, either at the notion of giving a speech, or at the fact that Raynor had done so over the live broadcast.

Perhaps, Matt Horner reasoned, that had been _why _Raynor had done it, to give the battered people of Shanxi something to chuckle at.

"Boys and girls, this is Jim Raynor," he said, starting off nice and slow. "I won't lie to you…"

* * *

"General, we have enemy ships in orbit!" Commander Victus reported, his talons flying over his console at the central holo-map. "Sizes seem indicate cruisers- six to be precise! Five appear identical to the cruiser that the patrol fleet destroyed, but the last is larger, closer in size to a dreadnought!"

General Kuril swore under his breath at the news, but the dealings of the Fleet were Oraka's concern, and he had bigger problems groundside to deal with, like the signal being broadcast across the planet.

"…_won't lie to you; we're in a grim spot here. I wish I could say that I can bring back those that you have lost, but I can't_."

"_What I can promise you is __**payback**__. These alien bastards have hit us hard, but now it's our time to hit back! Matt Horner and the _Hyperion_ just re-turned, and they brought half the damn fleet with 'em._"

"_We've been hit hard in these last few hours, make no mistake, but now it's __**our turn**__._"

Kuril snapped his attention to his aides, opening his mouth to demand answers, when the _Crack-__**thooom**_ of fighter-craft engines attracted his attention.

Kuril glanced upwards, making out the tiny flares of fighter-craft on re-entry.

"General, look!" Captain Denarius cut in, bringing up footage from one of the orbiting turian vessels.

General Kuril watched silently as the visual feed showed the largest Terran vessel doing _something,_ its spinal cannon starting to glow and _pulse_ with energy.

Kuril opened his mouth to say something, when the spinal cannon fired, spitting out a ball of pulsing red energy that raced across the screen, impacting a turian frigate on the edge of the fleet.

"_What did we find?_" Victus whispered quietly, quietly enough that only Kuril could hear him.

Silent, the command staff watched numbly as the gigantic ball of energy scythed cleanly through the frigate.

"Leave the Fleet to Oraka," Kuril snapped as he took control of the holo-map, refocusing it on the objects leaving the Terran fleet.

The screen showed dozens of objects undergoing re-entry; what appeared to be a mixed bag of dropships, fighters, and some bizarre objects that were the general size and shape of _buildings._

"All anti-air systems are to focus on blasting the incoming targets out of the sky!" Kuril ordered firmly, trying to take control of the situation and get his men focused. "Priority is on the larger objects!"

"Sir, we've got _additional_ incoming attack-craft!" a young, inexperienced aide reported frantically. "They're headed directly for our anti-air batteries, sir! If we divert the anti-air to the dropships, the fighters will have free reign!"

"Calm down, soldier." Kuril said, looking at each of his command staff in turn, reassuring them. "We _have_ protocols for this situation. Anti-air defense of our current lines is priority one, taking out the Terran dropships is target-of-opportunity _only._ All forward ground elements are to fall back to our lines and dig in."

"We have enough ships to defeat these Terrans - the Fleet will mop up the Terran ships and resume orbital fire support as soon as they can. Until then, our focus will be on securing territory: we need guards on civilians, sentries on every block, and drones scanning for insurgents. We're professionals, people, let's act like it."

"Yes sir!" Denarius blurted out nervously, drawing a few chuckles from the other command staff as they simply nodded.

"General, we should relocate the command center inside." Commander Victus advised in a quiet tone, projecting a screen showing drone coverage on his omni-tool.

"Any advantage that line-of-sight held for instantaneous tight-beamed transmissions is void now that we've lost orbital support. If we relocate _now_, we can get full control of the drone relays set up groundside, and should be able to keep any loss of coverage to a minimum."

"Agreed, but ground a few drones so that we can hold them in reserve." Kuril noted, singling the closer drones out with the point of his talon, leaving the far drones untouched. "And get the engineers to figure out a way of mounting cloak-detecting scanners on security check points."

"You don't think they have cloak-capable _infantry_, do you?" Victus questioned, slightly disbelieving.

"No, I don't, but that doesn't mean anything given what we've seen so far." Kuril replied wearily, rubbing a talon across his fringe. "Always expect the enemy to have something up their sleeve, Adrien. It pays to be prepared, even when it seems absurd."

As Kuril moved inside the spaceport's fortified control tower, he couldn't help but take one last glance at the mid-day sky, trying futilely to see the invisible conflict high in orbit.

* * *

For a brief moment in the war-torn city, there was silence.

Then came the **thundering** steps of men in CMC armor as they stomped their way down the street, heading out of the city.

"Double-time it!" Raynor ordered, frowning underneath his visor as the wind began to howl through the streets, sending up little swirls of dust. "The troops from the _Hyperion_ should be landing right on the outskirts of town, so let's get there quick!"

The Marines formed two rough columns of men as they ran, for ease of movement down the somewhat narrow street, and because nobody wanted to get too close to the windows and look into the devastation within.

As the squad cleared the last building and left the city proper, they were greeted with gun barrels and bayonets.

"Friendlies!" the nearest Marine in blue-CMC armor shouted, lifting his Impaler and waving them through the defensive line. "You boys should head to the central barracks. We're forming up proper squads out of whatever survivors we find."

"Thanks but no thanks, pal." Jax replied, shaking his head. "We're sticking with the Marshall."

"Marshall Raynor?" the Marine asked, surprised. "Colonel Benning is waiting for you inside the Command Center, sir!"

"Alright, I'll head over there in a minute." Raynor thanked, clapping the Marine on the shoulder with a neo-steel gauntlet. "Keep up the good work son."

"Yes sir!" the Marine replied instantly, stiffening to attention.

Raynor chuckled as Marine visibly restrained himself from saluting, before trodding past him towards the Command Center, passing by a small neon yellow placard that read:** VISORS DOWN! DUST HAZARD!**

The war-camp was a rushed mixture of efficiency and chaos, like most military camps, and more than once Raynor had to duck aside as a Goliath stalked by on anti-air duties or a Siege Tank rumbled past on its way to the front lines.

The air was full of dust kicked up from the dropships, churning visibly around in dark swirls, stark against the harsh light of the dusty plain.

Workers in SCV suits had already started placing simple autoturrets down for temporary protection, and Raynor could see the tall rotating peaks of missiles turrets scanning for targets.

"Good to see we haven't forgotten how to build a half-decent base." Raynor murmured to Jax, nodding towards the dug in Marine fireteams, supported by Siege Tanks.

"We haven't been out of practice _that_ long, Marshal." Jax replied lowly.

Raynor nodded sadly as they trudged forward, remembering all too well the blood and madness of the Koprulu Sector.

* * *

A few minutes later found Raynor inside the primary Command Center, staring at the tactical map.

"Why've you got the tanks _here_?" Raynor questioned, pointing a neo-steel manipulator/finger at the eastern edge of town.

"To better maintain fire support, sir." Colonel Benning, the ex-Dominion CO replied, his well-bred Core World accent notably distinct among the company of numerous Fringe Worlders like Raynor, along with his uniform - which, although it was only a set of fatigues, looked quite formal when compared to Raynor's battered CMC suit.

"Don't ignore the advantage of terrain - sure, the east side had easier access to better roads and maneuverability, but if we can get Siege Tanks up on the western ridge, we can lob shells down over a much farther area." Raynor corrected absentmindedly, his gaze focused on the starport itself, where the enemy commander had to be focused.

"Of course, sir. I'll redirect that company." Benning replied, already putting in the commands, transmitting orders to the company with his headset.

"This company?" Raynor singled out, pointing at the mixed company of Siege Tanks, Marines, and a few SCVs that was currently changing directions. "Don't bother, I'm splitting them up."

"Splitting them up, sir?" Benning questioned doubtfully. "The Siege Tanks need an adequate escort, otherwise they'll be taken apart by infantry raiders."

"Bullshit." Raynor dismissed with long ease. "Dominion strategies depended on fighting Zerg, Protoss, and _me_; I can tell you from experience that men escorting those Siege Tanks just made 'em slower, easier to isolate and destroy."

Raynor paused in thought, his eyes narrowed on the tactical map as he jotted down positions in his head, the techniques of strategy coming back to him effortlessly.

"No, instead take half the Marines off that company and use them as an aggressive forward scouting element. The enemy doesn't seem to like operating in units higher than a platoon, but on the off-chance that they _do, _the Marines'll locate 'em fast, allowing us to redirect our boys." Raynor ordered distractedly.

"What about the main enemy force? With the loss of orbital assets, we need intel on their positions." Benning pointed out, relinquishing command of the situation without a seconds hesitation.

"We can't risk Marines for pure scouting ops, they're too loud and too slow." Raynor explained, a frown creasing his mouth. "Where's our infiltration troops?"

"Hey, brudda," came a low voice, tinged with a husky Jamaican accent. "I thought your boys might need a little Spectre-muscle to hold their 'ands."

"Tosh." Raynor greeted, smiling as he clasped arms with the burly Spectre, his CMC-clad arm engulfing the Spectre's arm. "Good to see you. I'll need your boys to recon the city, in their usual fireteams."

"I t'ought you might ask that, brudda." Tosh acknowledged, tapping a few buttons on the tactical map. "So my boys are already out 'dere, doing some digging. Let me just put in dis frequency, and... there we go."

The map of the city unfolded before them, dark sections coming to life with live updates from operatives, pinpointing alien tank detachments, scouting posts, and more.

"Well, that'll do nicely," Raynor murmured under his breath as he surveyed the wealth of information. "Thank you, Tosh. That'll give us the edge we need."

"No problem, brudda. De missus would have me head if I didn't give you me support, not dat dere's any risk of dat not happening." Tosh replied, flicking his bone-stylized butterfly knife out, whirling it around his knuckles almost unconsciously.

"Where _is_ the missus?" Raynor asked, a slight smile quirking on the edge of his lips.

"Oh, she's around." Tosh answered, his dark features alight with a savage grin.

* * *

Across the city, a Turian was running for his life.

Panting for breath, he ran, ducking underneath a low ceiling as he sprinted full-out.

"This is Corporal Avernus, can anyone read me?!" he barked frantically into his comm-link, his turian professionalism starting to unravel.

"Command here, we read you Corporal," a calm voice reported. "Report your location and status, over."

"I'm near the factories!" Avernus reported quickly, as he dodged into a building. "My squad's all dead, picked off by a sniper! I think they're chasing me!"

"Calm down, Corporal, panicking will only help the enemy," the comm operator soothed. "Sixth Platoon's only a few blocks from your position, do you think you can link up?"

"I'll see, I-"

**CRACK**

.

.

.

"Corporal? Corporal!" the comm operator called, his voice echoing in the abandoned factory floor.

Gravel shifted noisily underneath a pair of boots, as light _bent_ and _changed_.

Bending down, a gloved hand gently plucked the comm-link from the dead turian, recording the brief exchange of words before it, like the others, went dead.

Lithe fingers dropped the comm-link into a shielded pouch with the others, cutting it off from transmitting or receiving.

She had already gotten word that Raynor was back in command, so the next set of orders to appear as text in the corner of her goggles was a little surprising.

Raynor always preferred having as much intelligence as possible, and though he had a strange habit of micromanaging Ghosts, it looked like time had helped cure him of that impatience.

As a result, she now had the operation freedom to do whatever she believed was the right course of action.

She typed out a quick text confirmation on her gauntlet, then dropped a small short-range comm. relay. In a few minutes, the relay would send her response, and by then she would already be on her way to her next target.

Silently, the woman stood up, lifting her suppressed rifle as she reengaged her cloaking field.

Light _bent_ and _shifted_ around her athletic form, concealing the light gray-white bodysuit and the short blonde ponytail from view.

The last thing to vanish into nothingness was her Cheshire cat grin, as she left to stalk another squad.

Nova was having _fun_.

* * *

"I can't shake him! Spirits, _I can't shake him!_"

"Cut your core's power and drop altitude!" Calixto snapped, twisting his own fighter through a series of tight maneuvers. "Do it-"

"I can't-" the panicking pilot started to say, before cutting into static.

_Damn it_, Calixto thought to himself, scowling as the pilot's Besra-class fighter plummeted to the earth, half of it's mass seared off by the laser fire of the lighter craft.

The two types of Terran fighters were a mixed bag of technology, almost as if they came from two different schools of thought.

One fighter was a slim, speedy craft that was outfitted with both laser batteries on it's wingtips _and_ cloaking technology, while the other was a hulking, slower fighter that used much more simplistic gatling cannons and missiles, but possessed the ability to transform into a _combat walker_.

It was as if these Terrans had copied the design philosophies of both the Salarians and the _Elcor!_ _**Madness!**_

_Honestly_, Calixto had thought to himself when he first viewed one of the latter, _**who**__ designs a transforming fighter? The lack of efficiency aside, the stress on the pilot must be monumental! _

The transforming fighters (nicknamed 'Brutes' by the turian pilots) were the slower of the two, and their missiles were slower than lasers, but their missiles were numerous, and the elite amongst their numbers seemed to delight in complex maneuvers via transforming their fighters in mid-flight.

Through this method, they were capable of previously _impossible _maneuvers, such as opening fire on a Besra that was directly on their tail, blasting it with massive force and avoiding counter fire, before re-engaging their engines and zooming off in the complete opposite direction!

The key to taking the lumbering Brutes out, Calixto quickly learned, was with speed and overwhelming force.

The armor on the larger fighters made them capable of withstanding a lone burst from a Besra's cannon, but the massive hail of missiles made sticking around long enough for a second burst dangerous.

Instead, turian pilots would instead blaze past the hulking fighters as full burn, giving them barely enough time to fire their cannon once before they zoomed past.

Afterwards, they would sweep around for a second pass, and pray to the Spirits that the Terrans hadn't filled the air with missiles in the mean time.

The other type, though... they were a _challenge_.

Unlike the hulking transformers, the nimble fighters seemed to glide through the air effortlessly, slicing through a turian fighter with only a few blasts from their lasers!

But it was worse than that, for the Terran fighters vanished into thin air with their cloaking technology every time a turian fighter got a bead on them! This ability earned them a grudging nickname and identifier of 'Ghosts' from the wary and worn turian pilots.

It was like a child's game of Hunter, but played with fighter craft! If Calixto hadn't been losing pilots so quickly, he might have enjoyed the challenge.

Of course, the skill of the pilot quickly rendered any hasty judgment about the craft void.

Calixto swore under his breath as he flipped his Besra on it's axis, his engines roaring as they sped around the narrow corner, far too close to the ground for any comfort.

Behind him, already far behind, the swarm of simple but numerous missiles exploded on the metal face of the three story building, sending slivers and chunks of neo-steel into the air.

From the sheer number of missiles in that last barrage, the Brute had to be running out of its munitions quickly, a fact that Calixto held close as he juked and jinked across the smoky and chaotic sky, trying desperately to evade attracting another target lock from a free opponent.

A quick glance at his rear cameras showed Calixto the Brute racing behind him, making the hairpin turn despite the inelegance of his fighter's design.

"Watch it, those Brutes can be nimble in the right hands." Calixto warned his squadron, talons shifting across his holographic control display.

"The Ghosts are a bigger problem, Captain," one of his men argued. "The Brutes haven't shown us that they can pull off high-g turns without losing the pilot."

"Well," Calixto snarled as the Brute lobbed two more missiles his way. "Apparently I found their best pilot, then. Keep clear, this guy's throwing enough missiles around to get lucky with a target lock; the airspace is full of 'em."

"Understood, Captain," his second in command answered.

While his left talon swept across the interface, sending his Besra in a wild canopy roll, his right talon clicked off the comm. unit so that he could concentrate.

The canopy roll made his fighter rise out of the trench of the street, into the uncertain airspace where anti-aircraft fire was possible, before flipping his craft over, giving Calixto an upside-down view of a squad of Terran Marines clustered on the roof of a building, pouring fire from their boxy rifles onto the street below.

The Besra rolled smoothly, it's twin stabilization wings (merely ugly stubs, in Calixto's opinion) pointing to the sky while the fringe-tip of the fighter missed the building by a scant half-meter.

For a long second, Calixto's focused senses fixated on one of the Marines near the back, as his rifle rose impossibly slow, organic reflexes following far too slow to follow the Besra-class fighter's superbly executed canopy roll.

Then the moment was gone, and the building flashed by in a blur, leaving the Marine and his squad behind.

Calixto leveled his Besra out, dipping it down under the protective cover of the streets, giving him a moment of freedom to get his bearings and find out where that expertly piloted Brute had gone.

The chime of a tracking-lock made Calixto swear, yanking his fighter around in a twisting shake as at least ten missiles from the Brute shot down from above like bolts of lightning.

_How did he get up there?_ Calixto marveled absently, while his talons flew across his interface, using every single trick and technique he'd learned in his many years to dodge as many missiles as he could.

Five of the missiles lost their lock, smashing their explosive payload into the dusty concrete streets below, one detonated just shy of the Besra and caught another missile in the blast wave, and three missiles crashed directly into the fighter.

Two of the missiles impacted together, overloading the kinetic barriers with sheer explosive force; but although they had more force than the shields could handle, the barriers performed their task perfectly, shunting all kinetic energy away and leaving the fighter (mostly) unscathed.

But the last missile had been slightly behind the others, and caught Calixto's right stabilization pod in its detonation, annihilating it instantly.

Calixto grunted as the explosion jolted him against his restraints, prompting screeching warnings from the computer's VI and sending harsh G-forces against his chest.

Struggling to maintain control with only one stabilization pod, Calixto wrenched his talons upwards, dragging his now-sluggish fighter skyward in a maneuver that was called the 'Retreating Hunter.'

His craft rose straight up and curved back, in the opposite direction of his original heading, leveling out awkwardly and bringing Calixto into sight of his attacker.

The Brute was racing down to the street as fast as its engines could take him, to avoid anti-aircraft fire, and seemed to be completely unaware of Calixto's new location.

Calixto's weary features twitched into a grim smile as he threw his Besra fighter into a dive, following the Brute downwards towards the ground.

Clenching his talons, Calixto opened fire, activating his nose-mounted mass accelerators.

The burst caught the Brute right above the engines, stitching a line of holes across its fuselage. Almost immediately, the Terran pilot punched out, accepting defeat graciously.

As the Brute smashed into the ground with a tearing **CRASH**, Calixto felt his meager control of the Besra give way. Lacking any way to regain control, he ejected, detonating the canopy charges and launching skyward in his seat.

Alone, descending to the ground in an uncontrolled acceleration, Calixto howled with laughter as the wind swept across his uncovered face-plates. Glancing briefly down, he activated the ejector seats safety features with the poke of a button, bringing the uncontrolled descent into a smooth glide towards the ground.

Then the side of his seat jerked. Another jerk tugged at Calixto's secured form as he bent over, inspecting the seat.

There was a hole in the seat, small but noticeable.

Calixto unbuckled his service-issue pistol, his sharp eyes quickly finding the ejected Terran pilot some forty yards away, taking potshots at him with a pistol.

"Determined little bastard, isn't he?" Calixto murmured to himself as he returned fire, the wind stealing away the sound of his words just as it had stolen away the sound of the Terran's shots.

Two more shots went wide, then a third clipped the edge of his seat, spinning him around. Frantically, Calixto snatched up the controlling yokes of the seat, bringing the spin under control before it dropped him onto the ground below, but he dropped his pistol as he did, sending it plummeting down below.

When the seat had stopped spinning, Calixto realized that the Terran had run out of ammunition, and was now limited to yelling at him, though he could only tell by the movements of the Terran's enraged face.

Unable to help it, Calixto laughed again, while the Terran expressed his extreme frustration in a language that he couldn't even understand.

With a **thump**, the ejector seat hit the debris-strewn ground, leaving Calixto lying on his back in said seat, still roaring with laughter.

Forty yards away, the Terran pilot also landed.

Without a moment pause, despite his immobility, the Terran immediately started hurling arcane and unintelligible profanity at Calixto, who simply couldn't stop laughing at the absurd event.

_We must be the two most incompetent aces in the sky,_ Calixto chuckled to himself.

And all the while, the Terran pilot, call sign 'Idra', screamed irritably at the turian in rage and frustration.

* * *

"Do you hear that?" Savos whispered softly, as he scanned the abandoned warehouse.

"No," his squad answered in unison.

The warehouse was empty, reported abandoned in the first push by turian troops. Now that General Kuril was pulling the turian lines back, they had to secure the warehouse _properly_, rather than just giving it a once-over.

Two large, soaring lines of stacked crates ran down the center of the warehouse, made of some unknown alloy. Some of the crates had fallen off, making a haphazard set of cover across the concrete floor and creating a few broken spots in the towers where a man could slip through to the other side.

"Private, get it together. The Terrans use hulking power armor, not hard-suits." his sergeant lectured as the squad swept through the towering stacks of crates professionally. "We'll hear the big ones coming long before we see them. Now quiet down and focus; we've got a job to do."

"Yes, sergeant." Savos replied quietly, clutching his rifle close.

The minutes passed slowly, as the squad of turians cleared the warehouse section by section. Wordlessly, they coordinated their search with the ease of trained professionalism, working in tandem to cover corners as they secured the building.

_tik_

Savos twitched, spinning towards the noise, towards a close door in the corner of the building. He opened his mouth to ask, but remembering the Sergeant's order, he closed it again and didn't say a word.

Then a hand touched his shoulder.

"I heard it too," Sergeant Derinus whispered. "Tighten up men, possible enemy."

Quietly, the two turians formed up at the door. Silently, Sergeant Derinus started a slow three-talon countdown.

As the last talon dropped into a balled fist, Savos kicked the door open, storming past it with rifle raised. Derinus followed afterwards, both gripping their rifles deftly as they covered the room.

The room beyond was of a middling size, and looked to be some sort of break room for the workers in the warehouse. It was empty, but the turians wasted no time in flipping over tables and checking behind cover for hidden enemies.

"Clear." Savos reported, frowning a little.

"I don't like this… stay alert," Sergeant Derinus ordered, his voice tinged with a hint of irritation at the lack of enemies.

Sunlight drifted through high windows, lightening up the power-less warehouse and turning it into a maze of bright sun-glare and deep shadows.

It was easy to be tricked by the deceitful contrast, so the squad advanced slowly, double-checking their corners and making sure that the shadows were empty before moving on.

Savos and the Sergeant rejoined another pair of turians near the central aisle of the warehouse, using the towers of stacked metal crates as cover.

Dust from the streets swirled in through shattered windows, not enough to provide a deep coat of grime, but not light enough to be ignored either.

_tik_

The turians reacted immediately, moving together into a close, back-to-back group as they simultaneously scanned for enemies.

"Upwards." Derinus grunted, keeping his rifle low as the other three turians scanned higher.

"Top of the crates?" Corporal Varanus suggested, doubtful.

"Unlikely; too wobbly," Sergeant Derinus dismissed, as the tense turians slowly crept forward as a single group.

Savos slowly walked backwards, keeping his rifle pointed the way the squad had come, while the other members of the squad covered their sides.

"There it goes again." Savos muttered, looking around quickly.

"I didn't hear it that time." Varanus admitted. "Whoever this is, he's good."

The fourth member of their squad suddenly jerked, raising his rifle.

"_I think I see-_"

_**CRACK**_

"_Cover!_" Sergeant Derinus shouted, as their fourth squadmate stumbled, his kinetic barriers broken.

Varanus and Savos dove behind a crate immediately, as Derinus grabbed their fourth man and started to yank him towards another piece of-

_**CRACK**_

The fourth member of their squad slumped bonelessly, a small hole in his upper chest visible to Savos as Sergeant Derinus dropped the body and dashed for cover.

Unable to see their enemy, the well-disciplined turians held their fire, and the warehouse went silent again.

Savos glanced briefly at the dead turian on the floor, his dark blue blood leaking through his shattered chestplate and onto the concrete floor, where it mixed with the thin layer of dust.

Savos hadn't even known his name.

"Contact!" Varanus barked, snapping his rifle up and spitting out a burst of precise shots. "In the back! Terran, small, no armor!"

"Flanking!" Derinus replied swiftly, as he charged around the outside of the right aisle of crates, breaking the line of sight from where Varanus had fired.

Savos moved up, giving supporting fire and catching a glimpse of a small creature, which darted away, its skin dark with a few blue lines – which means that it must be wearing some form of light armor. More importantly, the rifle in the Terran's hands was long and lethal-looking, though Savos didn't get more than a peek at it.

"He's got a hard-suit!" Savos reported quickly, as the Terran scurried around the left aisle. "He's going left!"

"I'll circle around!" Derinus replied, as he came back into sight at the far end of the central aisle. "Varanus, get the other side! Savos, cover us!"

Corporal Varanus vaulted his crate swiftly, hurdling over the break in the lines of crates and vanishing from Savos's sight.

_**CRACK-CRACK-CRACK**_

"The Sergeant's down!" Varanus cried out. "I don't see the Terran!"

"Moving up!" Savos called back, climbing the crates quickly.

"_Spirits!_" Varanus gasped, as he sprayed a burst of fire at _something_ that Savos couldn't see. "The Terran has a _cloaking field! He just vanished!_"

Savos's eyes widened at that revelation, and he hurriedly sprang over the last crate, joining Varanus on the other side.

It was darker on this side of the tower, and Sergeant Derinus's headless body on the ground didn't help calm Savos's agitated nerves.

"Semi-automatic fire." Varanus muttered, sweeping his rifle around frantically as he searched for the invisible Terran. "One round cracks the shields, the second is lethal."

"Quiet!" Savos admonished Varanus, but his unsteady tone conveyed his own level of panic.

Then it was silent again. The warehouse was still, the only sound in it coming from the movements of the two remaining turians.

Savos covered the backside of the aisle, his rifle feeling like a toy in his hands.

Then, almost unnoticeably, Savos heard something.

Without hesitation, Savos opened fire, spraying fire from his rifle at the corner of the warehouse, at that _infernal sound_ that was ticking away in his head.

Several rounds smashed into the metal uselessly, but just as his rifle overheated, the last round hit _something else._  
Unable to believe his eyes, Savos gaped as light _bent_ and _twisted_ around the Terran, revealing that rifle aimed right at the two clumped together turians.

"_Down_!" Savos screamed, tackling Varanus to the ground just as he began to turn around.

_**CRACK-CRACK-CRACK**_

Savos smacked into the concrete, his hardsuit and helmet softening the blow, but Varanus hit the ground like a limp doll, his upper chest turned into a bloody mess.

Everyone was dead but him.

Savos suppressed the urge to scream, biting it off inside with a hardened will as he gathered his strength.

_What are my options?_ Savos thought to himself.

He couldn't stand up and return fire, because the Terran had already proven that he could cut through barriers and armor effortlessly. If he exposed himself, he was dead.

Thinking quickly, Savos snatched up a grenade from Varanus's still warm corpse and hurled it over his protective crate, towards the Terran. He tossed another grenade after the first almost absently, and _then_ he scrambled to his feet.

_First unspoken rule of combat: there is no such thing as overkill._

As soon as he was up, he started running, sprinting full out _away_ from the Terran. Within half a second, he'd reached the end of the aisle of crates and turned the corner.

He pressed himself against the wide crates, gripping his rifle tightly.

Risking a quick glance down the center aisle, Savos looked past the harsh contrasting light and darkness to see-

- Nothing.

The Terran was gone.

Once more, it was still and silent.

Savos looked around frantically, but he couldn't see the Terran. Presumably, he'd reactivated his cloaking field.

Which meant that he was invisible.

_Spirits_, how was he going to survive?

Another quick glance down the side aisle – where Varanus had died – revealed nothing except a slight reddish tinge at the end, where Savos had hit the Terran.

Hopefully, the Terran had retreated.

…Which of course meant that he hadn't. Not when there was only one enemy left, one enemy that could report on the infiltrator's existence.

Savos moved out of cover, scooting over to the other stack of crates. He didn't quite know why he moved, though he justified it to himself as 'staying mobile rather than static', which was one of the first lessons taught to young recruits in boot camp.

But did those rules matter when your opponent was _invisible?_

He didn't think so.

The silence was getting to him – the chaotic rush of shooting and being shot at had been replaced with tranquil peace and calm, all while Savos's adrenaline pumped and his hands twitched. He wanted to shoot something, but he shouldn't waste shots.

Then Savos heard something.

Savos dove away from the stack, turning in mid-air to face the way he'd originally come, towards the far aisle where Varanus had died.

_**CRACK-CRACK**_

Savos's heart jumped at the harsh noise of the rifle, and then it jumped again when he smashed into the ground shoulder-first, scraping his armor across the concrete with a _schreeeeech_.

Savos opened fire; uncaring of his rifle's heat gauge, he sprayed mass accelerator rounds _directly_ at where he'd heard the noise.

His accuracy was horrible; firing from a position on the ground was not ideal - but while most of his rounds hit the walls, some of them hit something hidden in the shadows.

The dark corner lit up as the Terran's cloaking field failed spectacularly, light almost seeming to _break,_ much like how a kinetic barrier broke, revealing the Terran slumped against the wall, his dark hardsuit now stained with red.

Savos keep firing until his gun overheated, and even then his finger continued to pull on the trigger.

And when he stopped firing, the Terran stopped moving.

The overheated rifle _hissed_ as the heat vented, and the only other sound in the empty warehouse was the staccato of Savos's short breaths, in and out with a gasp.

Savos lay there for a minute, unable to remove his gaze from the Terran body collapsed against the wall, as if unwilling to believe it dead.

An immeasurable amount of time seemed to pass for Savos, locked in the grip of a combat rush, though it could not have been more than a few moments.

The reassuring _beep_ of his rifle woke him from that stupor, informing him dutifully that his rifle was once again ready to fire.

Slowly, Savos crawled to his feet, keeping his rifle leveled on the unmoving body.

His boots _thumped_ softly against the dusty concrete as he stumbled towards the body.

The Terran was shorter than the power-armored giants that Savos's squad had fought earlier, and was clad in a dark bodysuit that appeared to be distinctly less armored than his turian-issue hardsuit.

Thin pulsing blue-white lines ran across the Terran's bodysuit in a few places, though they dimmed as Savos watched.

The Terran's chest was a ruin, alien _red_ blood seeping out of the small holes of his rifle's rounds – matching the small hole in the Terran's leg from the first burst of fire.

Savos let out a sigh of relief, absently kicking the Terran's rifle away _just in case _he got back up.

The Terran was dead.

"This is Private Savos Aren of the Eighth Platoon," Savos broadcast through his comm., after taking a moment to calm his breathing. "My squad is all dead, but we killed a Terran infiltrator."

"This is Command, Private Aren, please repeat last transmission," a calm turian voice replied. "Can you confirm infiltrators?"

"Yes – yes, I – we killed a Terran infiltrator. The Terrans have – _functional_ – personal cloaking devices."

"Understood," the comm. operator said. "Hold a moment, I'm transferring you."

_Transferring me? _Savos repeated in his head, confused. They don't normally transfer comm. calls – that was a breach of etiquette and protocol.

"Private Aren, I need you to tell me _everything _about this infiltrator," said a strong, deep turian voice.

Savos's eyes widened again – that was General Kuril's voice! The General _himself _was talking to him!

His training kicked in, and he clamped his mouth shut before he could blurt out the General's name over the comm.; regulations forbade ever identifying an officer over communications in case of code breaking and signal tracking.

"They're relatively unarmored sir, a – a well-placed burst sh-should be able to put them down for good." Savos replied, his mandibles trembling a tad as he spoke.

"It's all right, son, take your time." Kuril responded. "I sent Second Platoon to your position, they'll be there shortly. You're going to be fine, trooper, but first tell me about the Terran."

Savos twitched in surprised again at the mention of the entire Second Platoon being sent to get _him_.

"They're carrying high powered rifles, much more powerful than the usual guns Terran infantry carry." Savos told the General. "I – I managed to recover this one intact."

"Good work, trooper, you've done the Hierarchy a great service." Kuril informed Savos warmly, his calm and controlled voice easing the tension out of the panicky. "Tell me, how did you kill it?"

He didn't know how to respond.

Savos looked at the corpse lying there, slumped against the wall with several holes in its chest, and he realized that he didn't know.

"I heard it, sir." Savos heard himself say, as if from a distance. "I heard it coming."


	2. Chapter 2

The command center was almost empty now, having been cleared of aides and orderlies that were more useful in CMC armor.

Dust motes swirled around in the light, having drifted in from the barren badlands through before the airlock had been sealed.

Alone for a moment, Jim Raynor took a long look at the storage compartment of his CMC armor, where he knew a bottle of whiskey was waiting to be drunk.

Raynor shook his head to clear those thoughts from his head, then looked back at the holomap in the center of the room.

While Raynor was busy inspecting enemy positions and making notes in his head, the blast doors _hissed_ and _clunked_ open again, admitting Colonel Benning and Fred Jax.

"Commander Raynor, we've finished hooking the command center up to the sensor grid." Benning reported, stiffening to attention and saluting. "That includes an exact list of all combat-ready troops."

"Good, let's take a look-see." Raynor replied, flipping a switch on the holomap's control board, not acknowledging Benning's salute.

Another button press brought up a long list of units and projected it above the table, showing Raynor all his available men.

Raynor scowled at the low number of Siege Tanks, having expected that number to be higher. It looked like the birds had taken a worse toll on his armored corps than he initially thought.

"Sir, the birds look like they're retreating." Benning noted, drawing Raynor's attention back down to the holomap.

Dismissing the unit list with the wave of a neosteel hand, Raynor scrutinized the map, as the crude representations of the bird-like infantry fell back in an organized manner, across all fronts.

"Tell the boys to do the same. I want a defensive line _here, here, _and _here_, across these streets. SCV squads are to strip away neosteel from the surrounding buildings for basic bunkers – no time for anything fancy." Raynor ordered, using the tip of a neosteel manipulator finger to trace his chosen lines on the map, before tapping the execute button.

The map flashed once, then the machinery in the command center rumbled as the Adjutants inset in the walls began stirring, sending out Raynor's orders to the troops, allowing Raynor to focus on the larger issues. It was a big improvement over the old way of having Raynor and his comm techs issue every order themselves, one that the defectors from the Dominion had brought over when they joined the Raiders.

"Why not press forward?" Benning questioned curiously, his well-groomed mustache curling with his frowning lips. "There's a risk from any reserve elements setting up a trap, true, but isn't keeping the birds off balance worth the risk?"

"Not this time," Raynor said, his hands flying across the map as he ordered units to and fro. "If we had a concentrated force, then you'd be right. Problem is, our Marines aren't the elite force they used to be. A tight unit cutting int'a the enemy is useful, but a less disciplined force'd lose speed and cohesion, leaving 'em open for a counter."

"I think I see." Benning murmured, gazing at the map. "So we'll pull back, reinforce the lines, and prepare a proper strike? Doesn't that concede the initiative to the birds?"

"It does." Raynor admitted. "It's a big risk, givin' 'em time to regroup and think, but I'd bet money that these folks'll can adapt faster than we can to a fast-paced slugging match. Better to play it a little slower for now, give our boys a chance to arm up properly."

"That may be, but-" Benning began, only to cut himself off as a new set of images popped up on the map. "Enemy armor, sir!"

"Relax, I see it. No need to get stressed." Raynor assured the Colonel as he noted the positioning of the column of enemy armor.

The birds were crafty bastards, Raynor had to admit; they'd decided to rush a large portion of their armor and air support straight at the weakest spot in Raynor's defenses.

"It'll take too long to send reinforcements on foot…" Raynor mused. "And our air units are too spread out to be effective. Siege Tanks are out, so we need our Marauders if we're gonna have a chance of stopping that column."

"What if we loaded up a company of Marauders into Medivacs, then used our reserve Vikings to escort them?" Benning speculated, drawing up the figures. "Make it six Medivacs and all twenty-four Vikings, and they should make it."

"I'm not so sure…" Raynor murmured, rubbing his goatee lightly.

Benning didn't even bother to ask why, as he was too busy watching, horrified, in case Raynor accidently crushed his own chin; a possibility that the Commander didn't even look worried about!

"We don't know enough about these birds to guess how well their tanks work. For all we know, those tanks could blast our Medivacs out of the sky and shred our Marauders before they could hit the dirt." Raynor contemplated, his irritation starting to show. "Damn it – there's too many unknowns!"

"Not like fighting back in the Koprulu Sector, is it Marshall?" Sergeant Jax spoke up from across the room, where he was inspecting the map.

"No," Raynor answered, shaking his head. "Back home, we _had_ to fight those ways, or we'd get crushed. Marauders and Marines, Medivacs and Vikings, no deviation allowed."

"Hell, Marshall, we aren't in Koprulu no more." Jax said in his broad southern drawl, shrugging his Confederate CMC armor's white shoulders. "Why fight like it?"

"Because it _worked_, Sergeant." Benning replied disdainfully, glaring at the former Confederate.

"Wait a minute…" Raynor whispered, his head jerking back at the map. "Wait just _one damned minute_… we can do that."

"Sir?" Benning asked, hesitant.

"These aliens don't have any idea what we can do, Colonel." Raynor explained, as he fiddled with the map's controls and started sending out orders. "We don't _have_ to stick to standardized tactics: we can use _whatever we have_."

Benning didn't reply, choosing instead to lean closer to the green hologram, his brows furrowing as he read Commander Raynor's latest orders. His eyes went wide, and then his mouth moved jerkily, like an engine trying to start.

"You're not serious, Commander!" Benning protested. "Those things are death traps, even _before_ they come under fire!"

Raynor grinned, punching in the last orders.

"Why not? They're fast enough to get there in time and avoid any direct action, _and_ they can leave a nice little surprise for 'em."

"What if the birds can detect mines?" Benning demanded.

"Then we lose some mines." Raynor shrugged. "They can't stop every single one."

"Colonel, with all due respect, have you ever _seen_ a spider mine rush?" Jax questioned, his grin widening. "No faster way in the galaxy to stop a column of armor."

"Alright then, even if we grant that, what about the birds' air power? They'll chew right through those unarmored bikes!"

"We're not gonna send 'em off alone now, they'll be going along with two squadrons – one of Vikings, one of cloaked Wraiths. If we cloak 'em as soon as they launch, it should last until they get into dogfightin' range, at which point they tag-team the birds alongside the Vikings."

"That… could work." Benning said slowly, thinking about it. "It's a big risk, but it could work."

"Oh, it'll work. 'Sides, Vulture jockeys get snippy if I don't let out to play every now an' then."

* * *

The symbol of the Turian Hierarchy might have been the Fleet, but every trueborn tanker knew in his soul that a Turian Armored Division was the Hammer to the Fleet's anvil.

Bathed in orange light from the tactical screen and sealed off from the intruding dust of the streets, Major Tarkus grinned as his squadron advanced through mostly empty streets.

His hovertanks were thundering through the wide streets of the grimy Terran city at a brisk pace, easily soaring above most debris with the customary four-foot clearance setting.

These Terrans had been easy prey at first, and his regiment had been broken up into individual squads to deal with scattered resistance, but now a _real_ enemy had appeared, and Tarkus was eager to do his job.

"Alright, boys," Tarkus barked over the communications net, linking him to each tank of the forty five tanks in his squadron. "Intel says we're going to be coming up on a defensive line pretty soon, so tighten up!

"Hold your cannons back unless you see a cluster – don't waste ammo on infantry, so gunners are to use the remote LMGs on any hostiles you spot. I don't want to see anybody using a cupola-mounted gun, unless you want a court-martial, if the Terrans don't kill you first!"

The status board on his screen blinked as each tank reported its acknowledgment of his broadcast, the small indicator dots flashing green once in confirmation.

Alone in the tank commanders position, Tarkus noted the quiet efficiency of his crew, as the secondary gunner switched the VI-run remote weapon systems to active search and began scanning the surrounding buildings for hostiles.

"Sir, I'm getting an unusual reading on sensors, directly ahead," his comm/scan technician, Sergeant Denolus reported, calmly.

"All units, full stop." Tarkus ordered, as his talons swept across his holoscreen, bringing up the sensor screen and taking a look. "Care to give an opinion, Sergeant?"

"Contact is too light to be infantry or armor, sir, and given the multiple pings, I think we've got a minefield." Denolus said, as Tarkus nodded.

"All units, we're diverting to the secondary route. I repeat; we're diverting to the secondary route. Confirm and acknowledge." Tarkus broadcast, as his screen dutifully switched back to the map, showing the change in heading.

His units acknowledged quickly, and the smooth column of hovertanks swung and shifted, while he punched in a few commands, connecting a secure channel to the new lead tank.

"Lieutenant Cravus, I want your tank in the lead." Tarkus informed the lieutenant brusquely. "The column will reverse to the nearest intersection, then move two streets to the east. We can't afford to move farther away from the minefield than that, otherwise we risk going through too thick of a line. If you encounter light resistance, punch through at speed and keep moving on."

"Understood, Major," came back the voice of the earnest young lieutenant.

The hovertanks slid back swiftly, the entire formation sweeping back down the ruined street under the smooth control of veteran drivers. The shredded debris rattled on the dusty concrete as the sleek hovercraft passed over with a low, industrial **_thrummm_**.

Five minutes later, Tarkus scowled as the young lieutenant passed word back that his sensors detected more unusual readings, which he believed to be mines.

"The readings are bizarre, Major," Cravus informed him, his voice uneasy beneath his layer of professionalism. "Multiple contacts, too small and light to be infantry, but _definitely_ not unarmed residents. What's more, the signals are _moving_towards us."

"_Towards-_"

There was the sound of a muffled detonation on the other side of the communications net, and Tarkus cut his words off abruptly.

**_CR-FWKOOM  
_**  
"Visual confirmation!" Cravus reported, his tone turning worried. "_Spirits_, there's _dozens of them!_"

Tarkus's eyes darted across his tactical display as the secure link to Cravus cut off. Red and yellow status lights flashed as the lead tanks opened fire on _something_, though his sensors couldn't yet detect what they were firing at.

**_CR-FWKOOM  
_**  
Grimly, Tarkus watched Cravus's status light turned red.

"_Report_!" Tarkus snapped over the comm. net, switching back to the open frequency.

"Mobile bombs, Major!" a nameless lieutenant told him, his voice frantic. "They're going _underneath_ the tanks!"

Tarkus snapped out a set of harsh commands, but discipline fell apart as tanks began firing haphazardly.

"Retreat!" Tarkus shouted over the comm., the detestable words tasting like ash in his mouth. "Full retreat, _now!_Disregard safety protocols, take off the limiters, and _retreat!_"

As his own driver followed Tarkus's desperate command, the sensor officer cried out in warning. Major Tarkus got one look at the sensor screen, full of blinking enemy contacts, and didn't have time to bark out any additional orders.

**_CR-FWKOOM_**

* * *

"What's the status on that armored column?" Raynor asked, as he typed away on the command interface.

"Looks like around sixty percent casualties, with the remaining tanks in full retreat." Colonel Benning reported, swiping at a bead of sweat as he consulted the map. "The retreat's well coordinated, so I don't think we got the CO."

"That's fine," Raynor replied with a shrug. "The birds aren't gonna try another rush like that anytime soon. Jax, how's that infantry push near the east doing? Are those reinforcements there yet?"

"Our boys are holding 'em off, Marshall." Fred Jax called out, shifting his cigar around in his mouth. "Third and fourth platoon are bein' pressed hard, but those reinforcements are half a minute away. Plus, Sergeant Joss said that she found a few of her ol' friends in a bar that might be able to lend a helpin' hand."

"What exactly does that mean?" Benning asked, quirking an eyebrow in a highborn gesture of confusion. "How do a few drunks help our situation?"

"Well, when those drunks are members of the War Pigs, they help out a fair bit." Raynor chuckled. "Am I right, Jax?"

"Right on the button, Marshall." Jax drawled.

"I've heard about the reputation of the War Pigs, but how useful are they now?" Benning doubted, unconvinced. "Drunk soldiers aren't worth the risk."

"The 'Pigs fight better when they've got a little buzz, Colonel." Jax replied lightly, humor in his tone. "Besides, Joss ain't_that _stupid. She left the _real_ drunks back at the bar."

"The Pigs are damn good soldiers, Colonel, drunk or not." Raynor assured the doubtful man. "Which means that the birds' infantry push is handled. Combine that with the retreat o' those tanks, and we're in a pretty good spot."

"Just… one question…" Benning mentioned hesitantly. "How did those men get into their armor so quickly?"

"Hell, don't you drink in your armor?" Jax questioned, puzzled.

There was a slight pause as Benning, clad only in his thin fatigues, glanced at Jax, who still wore his bulky and battle-worn CMC armor.

The ex-Dominion aristocrat and the ex-Confederate redneck regarded each other with identical expressions of bewilderment, making Raynor struggle to contain a smirk beneath his layer of professionalism.

"Colonel," Raynor answered, his amused tone tinged with exasperation. "Best not ask where they got their armor, 'less you want them to go back to the bar."

"U-understood, Commander." Benning replied uneasily, returning his gaze to the map.

"So, when are we gonna crush the damn birds?" Jax questioned. "We've got the momentum on our side now, so what are we waiting around fer?"

"It's better to wait and stay on the defensive." Benning answered.

"But why?" Jax asked again.

"Remember Chau Sara? If a fleet has orbital superiority, that fleet controls the entire planet." Benning explained. "Well, unless they have a defensive anti-orbital battery, but-"

"Now, now, no need to think about 'what ifs'." Raynor said. "If Matt and the fleet can beat off the birds up in space, then we can use those ships to win the battle on the ground."

"And if we _lose_ in space…" Jax started to say, before hesitating and falling silent.

Nobody spoke, as the implications of such a scenario were easy to understand. Jax and Benning grimaced at the thought, while Raynor thumbed on his comm.

"Tell me you got some good news, Matt."

* * *

Matt Horner winced as the _Hyperion_ shuddered once more.

"Shields at fifty percent!" Lieutenant Hall cried out.

"Could be better." Matt Horner admitted, as Raynor scowled. "We've been pounding on them pretty hard, but they've got a lot of ships."

"How's the fleet holding up?"

"We've lost the _Redoubtable_ to a reactor breach, and the _Valiant_'s a cripple." Matt told him, his voice tense. "_Cade_! Cut starboard thrusters, over-compensate with port, roll the shields."

Lieutenant Cade typed away furiously at his console, cycling fresh shields into place as the _Hyperion_ twisted in space, presenting her well-armored belly to the bird fleet as she weaved and twisted to avoid enemy fire.

By the time Matt glanced back up at Jim's holographic portrait, Jim had cut the signal, his holographic portrait fading away quickly.

Matt let out a quick breath of relief at Jim's understanding – multi-tasking while in combat was a _bad_ idea, and Jim could see that Matt needed as few distractions as possible.

Fighting the birds was different from normal Terran naval tactics, which usually took place at distances ranging from one light-second to five hundred kilometers, which was considered knife-fighting range, due to the range of laser weaponry.

The birds had clearly realized that, because they were pressing at _extremely_ close range, with their fleets barely one hundred kilometers apart, to deny the Terrans that advantage.

Worse, Matt couldn't increase that distance without giving the birds orbital supremacy, which would spell death for Jim and his ground forces.

Inspecting the chart again, Matt looked at the intel report on Tango-Four, the largest enemy vessel. It was a long, hulking thing, easily a kilometer long, with a truly massive spinal mount.

From the power of the kinetic strikes it was putting out, Swann had thrown out a ballpoint guesstimate that the spinal mount ran the entire length of the dreadnought, as Swann had hesitantly classified it.

The _Redoubtable _had tried to move closer and draw its fire away from the _Hyperion_, only for the damn thing to move around like something a tenth of it's mass and blast the _Redoubtable _to pieces with incredibly precise strikes, until it had destabilized the _Redoubtable_'s reactor, resulting in a catastrophic detonation.

Captain Henderson hadn't even managed to start evacuations before the core destabilized, and the few escape pods that had jettisoned were caught in the blast wave.

The _Redoubtable_ had gone down with all hands, eight thousand personnel.

"Bombardment arrays are to target Tango-Four when they come into range. Normal batteries are to continue hammering Tango-Three and Seven." Matt ordered, as the enormous Tango-Four fired again.

The bombardment arrays were one of Swann's modifications, and were purpose-designed for orbital bombardment. In a pinch, they could be used for extremely close-range combat in space, though their energy output wasn't as high as the batteries.

"The _Shogoki _just ionized Tango-Eight!" Lieutenant Cade reported. "They're stuck on a ballistic course, heading _away_from Shanxi's orbit."

"Tango-Three just went to FTL!" Hall called out, as Matt caught one last glimpse of the damaged and fleeing cruiser before it vanished via the birds' version of FTL-travel.

"That makes ten." Matt murmured to himself, as he keyed open the comm. "Swann, can we pull off another tac-jump?"

"Yeah, Matt, but I wouldn't risk a second one," the heavy-set engineer replied, his brow gleaming with sweat. "We just replaced one coolant line, and we don't have any more spares in storage. It's your choice, flyboy."

Matt thought about it for a second, while another shudder ran through the ship.

"We're doing it. Swann, get your engineers to keep that reactor stable, no matter what. Hall, give me a link to _Bucephalus, Ragnarak_, and _Jackson's Revenge_."

Three faces flashed into existence above the chart, but Matt didn't bother to look at them as his gloved hands poked at the hologram, designating positions around the dreadnought.

"David, Louis, Sebastian, we need to take out Tango-Four immediately." Matt explained, as he transmitted the coordinates.

"We're going to pull a tactical warp-jump, then fire _everything_ at that dreadnought. That spinal mount won't be of as much of a threat if we can get around it, but you'll need to do a lot of fast maneuvers to keep out of its firing arc. Understood?"

"Understood," they repeated, the two male voices not able to disguise the unmistakable third voice, a female one.

Matt glanced up, seeing a woman's face in place of Louis's.

"Captain Martin's dead, sir," the woman reported with a grimace of pain, a line of blood dripping from a cut on her head. "We had an internal explosion when one of the old Confederate power couplings failed, with three casualties. We're still combat-capable."

"Understood." Matt nodded. "Do him proud, Captain Shepard."

"_Ragnarak_'s hungry for revenge, sir." Shepard replied, her face set in harsh determination. "We won't let you down."

"Jumping on my mark." Matt announced, shifting his gaze to his antique wind-up wristwatch. "Three, two, one, _Mark!_"

Reality _bent_ and _twisted_, stars streaming past the _Hyperion_'s viewing screens as Matt's stomach lurched. The sensation enveloped his body, until Reality reasserted itself with a _snap_ of acceleration as the _Hyperion _reappeared in space aft of the dreadnought.

"All batteries, open fire!" Matt barked. "Status of the Yamato Cannon?"

"Ninety percent charged, sir!"

"Good enough – _Fire!_"

Matt watched, breath held tight in his chest, as the Yamato blast slammed into the enemy vessel, ripping a searing gash into the hull, right around the midsection, and leaving an ugly scar on the alien ship's plating.

"We've got him!" Matt whispered to himself, clenching a fist.

But then the dreadnought _shifted_, its silhouette stretching out for a split-second, before it vanished. The few remaining alien vessels followed suit, fleeing into FTL.

"Skipper, _all_ enemy vessels have fled the system!" Hall reported quickly, as Matt stared at the tactical chart, his fists now clenched in rage. "The ionized cruiser is still present, but it'll take thirty minutes of sub-light to decelerate enough to catch up to it."

Matt didn't respond, instead watching as the twin Yamato blasts from the _Bucephalus_ and the _Ragnarak_ soared in space, without a target in sight.

Sighing, Matt unbuttoned the top clasp on his stifling greatcoat and reached for a flask. He lifted it up to his lips, but paused before he could drink, setting the flask aside as he stared at the tactical chart. With the press of a few buttons, he signaled every ship in the system, plus Jim.

Six holo-portraits greeted him, every face looking relieved save for Captain Abernathy, who was stuck aboard the crippled_Valiant_.

"You've all heard it by now; the birds have left." Matt stated directly, charging straight into the conversation. "Priority is on the ground forces they left behind, so I'm splitting up the fleet. _Bucephalus_, _Ragnarak_, and _Shogoki_, you're to descend to the planet and provide close support for Jim. Katsuragi, I want you to park that oversized dropship of yours _inside_ the starport, drop the invasion ramp, and _take _that starport."

"From what our infil specialists are tellin' me, that's where the birds transmissions are comin' from." Raynor chipped in. "David, Sebastian, transfer whatever ground forces you have left over to the _Shogoki_, those troops'll be better used taking our their high command."

"In the mean time, I'll take Swann and the _Hyperion_ over to assist the _Valiant_. Sebastian, you're going to secure that ionized cruiser. Board it, and secure as many prisoners as you can." Matt ordered, as he felt long delayed fatigue start to set in.

"I'll keep my ground troops, then." Sebastian commented, making Matt shake his head wearily.

"Sorry, I didn't think about that." Matt admitted, rubbing his forehead. "You're right, of course. In that case, I'll transfer over whatever troops I have left to you. The _Valiant_ and the disabled cruiser are on roughly the same heading, so I'll send the shuttles over en route."

"Boys an' girls, we've done good work today." Raynor said. "We've lost a lot of people, and while we can't forget that fact, we've also got to keep our heads up. Sebastian, tell your boys that I want those birds _alive_. No executions, no beating surrendering prisoners. You read me?"

"Understood, Commander."

"Well then, let's get to it."

* * *

It was silent in the command post. The rapid-fire _click-clack_ of talons on keyboards had stopped, and nobody said a word.

General Kuril just stared blankly at the main display, which had a small red dot in the corner, indicating a priority message.

Quietly, Kuril stepped closer to the display, gently pushing aside the aide who normally manned the control board.

As his talons stretched out to play the message, another taloned hand stopped his.

"Sir," Captain Denarius whispered, his face downcast. "You _have_ to play it in private, sir. You know the regulations – priority messages are for the commanding officer only."

Kuril tilted his head, indicating that he had heard Denarius, but he pressed the button anyway.

Turian regulations listed a number of good reasons for that restriction: possibility of infiltrators, possibility of moral loss, need-to-know information, and so on.

Of course, like any rule, there was always a way to exploit it – due to the regulations, that meant that General Oraka's explanation about why he had _abandoned_ Kuril and his men would not be heard by the men he had left to die on this Spirits-forsaken world.

It meant that Oraka's shame wouldn't be exposed to the men.

So Kuril pressed the button, expanding the image of Oraka's nervous face, and played the message for the entire command center to hear.

"_To General Kuril, Commanding Officer of the Eighth Division of the glorious Turian Hierarchy, I hereby pass formal Command Authority concerning the affairs of the Relay 314 incident to you." _

Every single turian in the room was still, muscles tightened in distaste at the legalese that Oraka had employed.

_He even dreamed up a name for this cluster-fuck_, Kuril thought to himself distantly.

_That sanctimonious asshole._

"_To prevent the loss of the entirety of the Sixth Expedition Fleet, I must withdraw from this Theater of War. As Commanding Officer of the Sixth Expedition Fleet, I must warn you that the unknown species identified as 'Terrans' will take no prisoners, and so you must give them no prisoners."_

Captain Denarius stared, horrified and dumbstruck, at the recorded image of Oraka's face.

At the starport's Terran control panel across the room, Adrien Victus tightened his grip on the back on his commandeered Terran chair, his talons stabbing viciously into the seat, though his face was emotionless.

"_To that effect, I am hereby forced by extenuating circumstances to Order you to Give no Surrender, as the Terrans will not Accept it. I will pass on the dreadful news to the families of your soldiers. Fight on, knowing that I will return will the full force of the Turian Hierarchy to avenge the loss of you and your men. For the Hierarchy."_

As the message ended, Kuril let out a protracted sigh, aware that every eye on the room was on him.

"Commander Victus, prepare to transmit a response." Kuril said, his words tight and controlled.

"General Kuril, the Fleet has left the system. They won't be able to receive the message." Commander Adrien Victus stated, his voice similarly controlled, though Kuril could detect Adrien's unstated plea of _please, don't do this_.

"Message starts," Kuril stated, ignoring Victus. "To General Oraka: message received, and _refused_."

The aides and technicians in the room gasped, jaws dropping in shock as Kuril continued speaking, untouched by their shudders of horror at what they were witnessing.

"_You _have killed enough of **_my _**men today, Oraka. I hereby declare you _unfit for duty, _and charge you with _cowardice, incompetence, _and _high treason_." Kuril continued, his voice calm and unhurried. "Message ends."

As the soldiers in the room stared at Kuril, only one of them moved.

Laying his hand on Kuril's shoulder, Adrien Victus nodded to his General.

"As General Kuril's second in command, I agree with his assessment, and endorse his decision."

Turian discipline was too tight for the men in that room to start shouting like a gang of rowdy children, but Kuril could tell that his men's discipline was about to snap.

"Get me a blanket comm. signal." Kuril demanded, the bark of command in his voice snapping his men out of their shock. "I want everyone on this rock to hear me."

"Done, sir." the comm. technician said, saluting formally.

"Forces of the Turian Hierarchy, as your Commanding Officer, I hereby order you to _stand down _and _surrender_. I _repeat_,_stand down _and _surrender_ to the Terrans, in as large groups as you can gather. There is to be _no _resistance to the Terrans, or I fear that we shall all be killed."

Finishing his broadcast, Kuril dropped his comm. unit and took one last look around the room, at all the disheartened turian troopers slumping at their posts.

Officers were supposed to encourage their troops, not dishearten them.

And even if he was soon to be branded the biggest shame in the history of the Hierarchy, General Kuril was _still _an officer.

"Commander Victus," Kuril said, turning to his loyal second in command. "Make sure my broadcast goes down correctly on the official record, please. I'd hate for history to get it wrong."

Victus chuckled, and after a moment of pause, Kuril joined in, followed shortly by the rest of the men in the command center, all chuckling at something that wasn't funny at all.

Across the city, turian soldiers began to lay down their guns and surrender before the Terrans, ending the long day of fighting for the little dirtball called Shanxi.

* * *

Places of power are hard to recognize.

Corporations could be run from a boardroom, true, but the majority of the Terminus Systems was run from a club. The meeting of two of the most powerful individuals in the galaxy could be in a back alley.

Appearances, as history has taught the many races of the galaxy, can be deceiving.

Many people believed that the Citadel Council's place of power was the gleaming chrome and tasteful greenery of the main reception hall, where treaties were signed, embargos decided, and declarations stated.

This was not, strictly speaking, true. The Citadel Council's place of power was a small back room in the Presidium, full of comfortable furniture, beautiful artwork, and the very best anti-surveillance devices. It was their spot of relaxation, where they could comfortably decide the fate of worlds.

After a long day of meetings and negotiations, the three members of the Council reclined in their preferred seats, sipping on drinks and chatting lightly about trivial things.

Councilor Tevos chuckled as Councilor Quixos told a long, humorous tale about bored STG office workers.

Quixos delivered the tale with his distinctly peculiar voice, which was much slower and deeper than most Salarian voices, which, when combined with his refusal to wear the traditional hood, had massively aided his public persona of being the perfect bureaucrat.

Of course, both Tevos and Councilor Kolonus knew that Quixos was a former member of STG himself, though he had long since changed his career to a political one.

"Of course, that's when the quartermaster returned." Quixos recalled, looking up at the gracefully designed ceiling as if in thought. "I believe that his exact words were something along the lines of 'What have you pencil-pushers managed to do_this_ time?'"

Tevos nodded, absently noticing Kolonus drain the last of his whiskey. Internally, she frowned, as the young turian Councilor normally didn't drink that much. It was if he didn't care about wasting good alcohol, and simply wanted to get drunk.

"…but just before the quartermaster sat down in his chair, he smelled the wet paint." Quixos finished, his usual gentle smile adorning his plain face.

Councilor Tevos laughed at the conclusion of the tale, but her mind was on Kolonus, who was starting to lean forward, as if to speak.

"A good tale, Quixos." Kolonus praised, nodding his head courteously. "Of course, no good turian would be caught performing such a disrespectful prank."

Glancing to the side, Tevos's eyes momentarily met Quixos's, searching for anything unusual in his expression, but she was unable to find any. The salarian's poker face, as always, was flawless.

"Of course," Quixos replied, "for the Hierarchy prefers to play pranks on its enemies, yes?"

"I'm not sure we would call them pranks, though." Kolonus considered thouhtfully. "The Krogan didn't find them too funny."

"Neither did the Rachni." Tevos chimed in, following Quixos's unspoken lead. "We're quite lucky in that respect. If we hadn't found the krogan in time, none of us would be laughing."

"The Rachni Wars were terrible." Kolonus agreed, his low turian voice rumbling. "For all the arrogance of the Krogan, they did a fine job of repelling the Rachni. Those wars only serve to reinforce our purpose here."

"Oh please, Kolonus, you can drop the thinly-veiled hints." Tevos told the turian. "Something's wrong, and you want to discuss it."

"Would it have something to do with the new species you've discovered?" Quixos asked pleasantly.

"_Dammit_, Quixos, you have already been _warned_ to keep STG away from the Hierarchy!" Kolonus barked, turning hostile abruptly.

Having experienced plenty of drama in her time, Tevos merely pursed her lips at Kolonus's unusual aggression. Despite being much younger than both of his fellow Councilors, Quixos's politely smiling poker face didn't waver for a second.

"I wish you wouldn't jump to those assumptions, Kolonus." Quixos sighed, looking perfectly innocent. "STG did no such thing. All it took was simple observation. When a turian fleet returns with less than half of its ships, people tend to notice. Nothing illegal about ship spotting, is there?"

"Kolonus, did your people start a _war_?" Tevos asked calmly, well-restrained infuriation leaking into her tone.

"A patrol fleet encountered an unknown species activating a Relay." Kolonus replied, slightly flustered at Tevos's uncharacteristic aggression. "When the fleet attempted to stop them, they opened fire, destroying two frigates and a cruiser before we finished off their fleet. Unfortunately, the patrol fleet discovered that another nearby Relay had already been activated."

"How many other Relays were activated?" Tevos questioned, a frown forming on her delicate blue features.

"Just the one, luckily. The patrol fleet immediately returned to the nearest fleet base and reported the violation of Citadel law. Luckily, General Oraka and the Sixth Expedition Fleet were able to depart immediately." Kolonus continued, his aggression slowly lessening as he spoke.

"Why did this General Oraka not simply wait for confirmation from Palaven?" Quixos queried curiously. "With Relay travel, the wait wouldn't have been more than an hour at most."

"Based on the information he had, Oraka believed the best course of action to be an immediate response, given the abilities shown by the hostiles." Kolonus said stiffly. "He was well within his rights as commanding officer to pursue the threat and eliminate it."

"From the looks of things, the threat almost eliminated him." Quixos mused.

"You know that the Council prefers that all First Contact situations go through us first." Tevos reminded Kolonus.

"As I said, Oraka was well within his rights as commanding officer." Kolonus repeated. "He felt that an immediate response was preferable, for the greater good of the galaxy."

"Really?" Quixos asked, seeming genuinely confused. "I thought it was because he wanted a look at the functional capital-class laser weaponry that they possessed."

"_Spirits damn you_, Quixos, keep your sneak-thieves out of the Hierarchy's files!" Kolonus snarled.

"Again, I must protest." Quixos countered calmly, looking offended by such an implication. "The Salarian Union would never _dream_ of invading the private security files of the Turian Hierarchy."

"Then _how_-"

"We simply looked at your ships and noticed that the exterior damage was of a different nature than most mass accelerator hits. Once we eliminated certain factors, the truth was easy to determine."

Tevos sighed, her slim fingers rubbing her forehead, as she contemplated the situation. It would take some doing to fix this situation without alienating the Turians or sparking a war.

The room fell into an uneasy silence as the three Councilors each withdrew into their own thoughts. Quixos gazed up at the ceiling, lost in thought, while Kolonus sent a glare in the direction of the meddling Salarian.

After half a minute of this tense stillness, Kolonus opened his mouth to speak again, when Quixos suddenly got to his feet and started striding towards the door.

Affronted by the snub, Kolonus also stood, a look of anger starting to come across his face, while Quixos quietly slipped through the small door into the waiting room on the other side.

"Let him go, Kolonus." Tevos advised. "Though he may be infuriating at times, he wouldn't leave unless he had a good reason."

"You already know my thoughts about Salarians spies." Kolonus huffed. "Always skulking about, as if we were not allies!"

"But if what he says is true, then your General Oraka did something quite similar." Tevos pointed out. "I don't like seeing conflict in our Council, Kolonus, you _know_ that. I would prefer to solve this issue with as few casualties as possible, but for that to happen, you need to work with us."

A light _beep_ preceded the sliding doors opening once more, both Kolonus and Tevos turning to look towards the door as the chime rang out.

"Ah, my apologies, dear friends." Quixos called as he re-entered the room. "I suddenly remembered that I had arranged to have drink with Primarch Fedorian, and I thought that he might be interested in our current conversation."

Striding into the room, Primarch Fedorian paused for a moment to whisper something to Quixos, before bowing respectfully to Tevos in a gesture of respect.

"Good to see you once more, Councilor," Fedorian greeted, his voice tinged with a warm rumble. "I wish it were under better circumstances."

"Indeed," Kolonus said, saluting his Primarch. "However, I must restate my view that General Oraka acted for the betterment of the galaxy."

"That is merely _your_ view, Kolonus." Tevos reminded, her tone quiet. "While we treasure your opinion, a problem this large requires something more substantial. Primarch Fedorian, what is your government's position on this matter?"

Primarch Fedorian didn't respond immediately, as he slowly paced back and forth. After a few seconds, the Primarch turned back to Tevos, his dark blue vestments shifting as he took a seat.

"While General Oraka was within his rights to commit to action, as I'm sure Kolonus has told you, that is not the main issue at the moment." Fedorian explained. "According to Oraka's report, the attempted pacification of this new species failed almost completely."

"How so?" Quixos asked inquisitively.

"The initial approach was unhindered – it appeared that the only warship these 'Terrans' had within the immediate vicinity was the one destroyed at Relay 314." Fedorian continued.

"The fleet took out every military installation they could detect with pinpoint orbital strikes, then deposited General Kuril and the Eighth Division to capture the capital city. Resistance was scattered, but heavy, and the Terrans used several advanced technologies against Kuril's men."

"Then what?" Tevos prompted.

"Several Terran warships emerged from FTL, directly in orbit of the planet. They managed to cut off Oraka's orbital support, and then further managed to detach combat elements to aid the resistance." Fedorian told them, his tone solemn.

"The reports from the ground were bad. The majority of Kuril's armor was ambushed by a large swarm of mech-mines, probably VI-run, while Terran fightercraft used full-spectrum cloaking devices and laser weaponry to cripple our own Besra fighters."

"The Terran fleet destroyed several frigates and cruisers, and heavily damaged Oraka's dreadnought," Kolonus followed up. "Oraka knew that information about the Terrans was more important than the planet itself, and though he stayed as long as he could, he was forced to retreat."

"From what few ground reports survived, there is no evidence to suggest that the Terrans took prisoners." Fedorian informed them, voice grim and determined. "The Terrans have many technological advantages, and are likely preparing for a retaliatory strike. At this point, I must recommend that the Council prepares for a war."

"War is the last resort, Primarch." Tevos replied, her voice firm. "The diplomatic options must be pursed first. I will send an envoy to this planet, and hopefully we can prevent a full-scale war from breaking out."

"Your diplomats will be butchered, Councilor." Fedorian argued, standing his ground. "I will not see innocent lives wasted."

"If a war is coming, then _millions_ of lives will soon be lost, Primarch. What are a handful of diplomats compared to that?" Tevos riposted, a hint of irritation lacing her tone.

"Make no mistake, the Turian Hierarchy _will_ be held to account for this grievous mistake. Whether it is the fault of the patrol fleet or of this General Oraka, the Turian Hierarchy has **_attacked _**an unknown species because they were violating a law that _they did not know_."

"But, Councilor-" Kolonus started to say, only for Fedorian to cut him off with a harsh gesture.

"Let us pray, Primarch, that the diplomats can stop this madness before it ends in open warfare." Tevos said, her words final.

* * *

The cantina was almost abandoned.

Quietly, he lifted his glass, draining the last of the whiskey. As he set the glass back down on the counter, he fumbled for another bottle.

The pleasant fog of alcohol messed with his arm, or maybe his sight, and the next thing he knew, he was reaching for the bottle of whiskey as it plummeted down to the deck.

For a moment, the bottle seemed to move in slow-motion, as it sluggishly dropped to the metal-plated deck.

Then it stopped.

"Care to tell me why you're drinking on my ship?"

He looked up at the eyes of his good friend, and tried to laugh. It came out as a choked, hiccup-like sound.

"Dammit, you're supposed to be setting an example for the men," his good friend snapped.

"Leave me alone, Jim!" Matt replied angrily, reaching for the bottle.

"What if the damn birds come back, Matt?" Raynor roared furiously. "If you're too damn drunk to command the battle, we're _dead_!"

"You don't understand, Jim!" Matt shouted back. "S'all my fault! If I'd lef' more ships, _Valiant _wouldn' be a cripple, and the _Redoubtable_ wouldn' be a floating cloud of particles!"

So that was it.

Raynor sighed, putting the bottle back under the counter as he sat down next to Matt at the disused bar, which had been left abandoned since Cooper had 'left' them.

From his own experience with the bottle, Raynor knew that confronting Matt directly would only make the problem worse.

But God-**_dammit_**, Matt had dealt with Raynor's own alcoholism for four years, and Raynor would be _damned _to the same hell as _Mengsk_ and the _Confederacy_ if he didn't own Matt a debt for that.

"Matt, you know that Governor Maxwell proposed the fleet's movements. We all agreed that it one Battlecruiser would be enough to defend Shanxi." Raynor replied quietly. "If anything, it's my fault for not insistin' that we leave more cruisers here."

"_Redoubtable_… six-thousan', four hun'erd and fifty six…" Matt murmured under his breath. "_Valiant_… eight-thousand and twenty four…"

"Matt, let it go…" Raynor said softly, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You'll just burn yourself up if you keep doin' this."

"I could have jumped farther out - If I'd tac-jumped farther away after dropping off Benning's men, then I could've taken out that fleet without losing those men!"

"And in that time, the birds could'a bombed our men into the ground," Raynor argued. "If the birds had a choice between chasing your ships around or providin' orbital support for the ground troops, then you _know_ they would've destroyed our base, then fled to FTL before your ships could blast 'em."

Raynor patted Matt on the back, but his hand froze as Matt spoke again.

"…You didn't see the report… did you Jim?"

Raynor averted his eyes. He didn't respond.

"One. Hundred. Thousand." Matt ground out, painstakingly enunciating every syllable. "They're still combing through the rubble. You_ know_ that number is only going to climb."

For a moment, Raynor thought about the uncounted billions dead in the numerous wars that had plagued the Koprulu Sector.

Statistically, Raynor should be used to such horror. He should shrug off the relatively small losses as acceptable casualties.

Raynor clenched his fists, gritting his teeth as he remembered the colonists from Mar Sara devoured by the alien zerg, the rebels on Antiga gunned down by the uncaring Confederates, and all the people killed when Mengsk had lure the _damned_zerg to Tarsonis to annihilation.

All the bodies he'd seen over the years, burned into his memory – all the screams he'd heard, over the comm. or in person – all the dead men, women, and children who had lost their lives…

And _just_ when they had _thought_ theywere_ safe_, _just_ when everything was looking _good_, another group of alien bastards just _had_ to attack.

"If we don't do somethin', Matt, then we're gonna see a whole lot more death." Raynor muttered to his friend. "We got work to do, Matt. Let's get to it."

* * *

"I. Can't. Eat. That." Kuril growled, glaring at the white-coated woman.

The woman replied in her language, speaking with the same calm tone that Asari doctors did. She gestured at the plate of warm food, then took an exaggerated bite, as if to show that the food wasn't poisoned.

"For. The. Last. Time." Kuril snarled. "_I. Can't. Eat. That._"

For added effect, he mimed retching, like he had seen a Terran do, but the woman merely looked confused behind her glasses.

Kuril sighed, shrugging his shoulders to show the Terrans that he was tired of this, rattling his restraints as he did.

The woman nodded once, jabbered some more words, and stood up. She moved away from the thin metal table and quickly crossed the small spartan cell.

Depressing a small button and reciting some code, the door unlocked with a pneumatic _hiss_ while the doctor shook her head, causing the matt of black fur on her head to bob back and forth.

"Spirits, doctor." Kuril told her quietly, his words soft. "If you don't figure this out soon, then my men are going to starve. Please, for their sakes, figure it out."

The doctor looked back at the restrained, her expressions curious, but it was clear to Kuril that she didn't understand.

The woman spoke again, her words unintelligible to Kuril. If only he still had his omni-tool and the rudimentary translation software that Commander Victus had designed, then maybe he could tell the Terrans about the difference in their respective biology.

Or was it physiology? Kuril used to remember, but after two days of starvation, he was staring to get a little light-headed.

"You know, this would all be easier if you could understand me." Kuril muttered tiredly.

The woman didn't respond, choosing instead to close the door.

Kuril sighed once more, as he recalled the impossible sight of that gigantic Terran cruiser landing outside of his command center at the starport.

Well, at least the Terrans had accepted his surrender. He didn't even want to think about what would have happened if the Terrans had killed his men. He thanked the Spirits the Terrans had some honor.

The door _hissed_ again, and Kuril looked up to see another Terran entering the room.

This one was male, and clad in a set of faded blue cloth pants, a dirty white shirt, and a tattered dark leather vest. His face was worn, and his dark fur was fading into grey in some spots. The man had a hard, determined look in his eyes, and he stared straight back at Kuril without any hint of fear.

The thin metal chair _screeched_ against the ground as the Terran pulled it back. After he sat down, the Terran slowly ran his eyes over Kuril's features.

"I know I'm not much to look at, but that's more your fault than mine." Kuril replied quietly, shifting around as much as his restraints let him and shrugging, showing off the ill-fitting clothes the Terrans had given him streching across his chest and hanging loose around his waist.

The Terran seemed to understand, because he chuckled just like an asari did.

"Raynor," the Terran said, pointing at himself. "Ray-nor."

Then he pointed at Kuril.

"Kuril," he said, understanding what this 'Raynor' wanted. "Ku-ril."

The Terran grinned, and Kuril once again noted just how similar these Terrans were to the asari. So far, asari gestures seemed to match up, but he didn't know if he could rely on those similarities to properly judge Raynor's mood.

Then his brain processed what Raynor had said, and he realized that he was talking to.

"Jim… Ray-nor?" Kuril questioned, slowly enunciating the syllables.

Raynor's eyes widened, and he grinned again.

"Jim Raynor," the Terran repeated, nodding.

"I heard you on the broadcast." Kuril mentioned casually, though he knew that Raynor wouldn't understand.

Sure enough, Raynor's grin went out, and he shook his head.

"Damn." Kuril grunted.

"Damn."

Kuril sat there awkwardly for a moment, before his stomach started aching again.

Wincing at the pain, Kuril stared directly into Raynor's eyes, then flicked his gaze down towards his shackled talons.

Raynor looked confused for a moment, then comprehension dawned.

"No." Raynor denied, shaking his head.

Kuril stared into Raynor's eyes again, then deliberately blinked once. Then he glanced down to his right talon.

Raynor looked at him for a few seconds, his eyes narrowed.

Then Raynor spoke, loudly and clearly. His gazes shifted over to the mirror on the wall, and Kuril somehow knew that Raynor wasn't talking to him.

With a _click_ and a _hiss_, the door in the back opened up again. Another human entered the room, with darker skin, bulkier muscles, and long braided fur.

Raynor twisted in his seat, glancing over his shoulder as he greeted the other Terran. The two conversed openly, and after a minute, the newcomer nodded once, then took up position behind Kuril.

Neither of the Terrans moved towards his shackles, but when Kuril glanced back at Raynor, the Terran merely held up a single finger, which was a gesture that Kuril had never seen before.

With a pneumatic _hiss_, the bolts holding the restraint clamps on his right arm loosened, and Kuril could move his arm again.

But Kuril still couldn't communicate, since he doubted that Terrans understood turian signal-code.

After stretching his arm for a moment to get the kinks out, he tapped on the table, miming the act of drawing something with a single talon.

Without another word, Raynor plucked a metal stylus from his pocket and placed it in front of Kuril.

It took Kuril a few moments to adequately grasp and understand the stylus, with one end letting out some kind of ink when pressed against the table.

Slowly, Kuril meticulously traced a zigzagging line on the table, cursing as the stylus slipped through his talons.

Raynor grabbed the stylus, and moved to place it back in his pocket, when Kuril held up a single talon, like he'd seen Raynor do earlier, to tell him to wait.

Slowly, with narrowed eyes, Raynor pushed the stylus back over to Kuril. After he'd picked it back up, Kuril started drawing an identical line, zigzagging back and forth across the first line.

Raynor leaned forward, one of the odd lines of fur over his eyes quirking upwards.

"De en ay," Raynor said, tapping the ink figure.

Kuril didn't know what that meant, but he nodded anyway.

Slowly, Kuril began drawing again, gaining speed and dexterity as he grew accustomed to the stylus's odd cylindrical shape.

After finishing, he dropped the stylus, tapped the drawing once more, then pulled is arm back.

Raynor stood up and walked over to Kuril's side of the table, speaking quickly to the other human as he did.

Kuril took a moment to appreciate the rough sketch he'd created. On one side, there was the familiar caricature of a turian, like what a child would draw. A single line connected the figure to one half of the 'DNA' strand, and on the other side, there was a crude stick figure of a human, touching the other half.

He may not be an artist, but Kuril was pretty damn proud of that sketch.

Another _hiss_, and the door to the outside opened again, admitting the female doctor in the white lab coat. The doctor talked excitedly with Raynor, pointing at Kuril's sketch and gesturing with her hands.

"I wish I could understand what you're saying." Kuril told the doctor honestly, shrugging. "_Spirits_, I wish you could understand what _I'm_ saying."

"I am afraid that my friends are not capable of understanding your language," boomed a loud voice.

The voice seemed to echo all over the room, as if it had come from a set of hidden speakers in the ceiling.

"Who's there?" Kuril demanded, twisting his head frantically to see who was speaking.

All three of the Terrans had stopped their chattering, and were all looking towards the doorway.

Raynor spoke, but he didn't look at either of the two Terrans.

"Yes, James Raynor. I am indeed in communication with General Kuril," boomed the voice again, making Kuril wince at the sheer _volume_. "He is aggravated that he cannot converse with you."

Kuril's mandibles dropped down, as his eyes widened in shock. He tried to speak, but the words refused to come out.

Sluggishly, Kuril turned to look at the door of his cell, which hadn't closed when the female doctor had entered.

A grey hand reached past the darkness of the door and grasped the other side.

Kuril's horrified eyes stared at the hand, as his mind noted just how _long_ those fingers were.

"_What_ are you?" Kuril demanded, as another figure entered the cell, its high-crowned grey head barely passing underneath the door.

The shadows dispersed as it entered the room with _booming _steps, revealing the alien in all its bizarre magnificence.

Its golden armor was odd, almost archaic looking, with what appeared to be blue gems inlaid in symmetrical grooves in his armor.

Its face was long, more akin to a Turian's than to a Terran's short face, and its eyes were a blazing blue, as if on fire.

But what terrified Kuril the most was the fact that it had no mouth, and was somehow speaking.

"Do not be afraid, General Kuril, for I mean you no harm," the voice boomed again, while the figure bowed formally at the waist.

Kuril stared, dumbstruck, at the alien being before him.

"Who are you?" Kuril whispered.

"I am Artanis, Hierarch of the Protoss."

* * *

The void of space was beautiful.

Without an atmosphere to obscure the view, the stars shone silently like glittering jewels.

Colossal against the distant stars, the ancient Mass Relay drifted in its lazy orbit, its internal mass effect core spinning mysteriously.

Closer, drifting on station-keeping thrusters, a massive mixed fleet of turian warbirds waited. Three neighboring patrol fleets had been grouped together to provide immediate support, while a full detachment from Palaven was assembled.

Her eyes trailed along the belly of a dreadnought, while her mind recalled seeing that spinal cannon firing at the batarians not so long ago, over the planet of Esan.

"Captain?"

Shaking her head out of those thoughts, Captain Celda T'Vanse turned away from the transparent observation bubble, looking at her assistant.

"Yes?"

"We're ready to travel through the Relay."

"Tell the bridge to wait, please," Celda asked, smiling at Aeian. "I'd like to be as ready as possible before we pass through."

"With respect Captain, isn't this just another first contact?" Aeian asked, sounding slightly confused.

"Each first contact is different, youngster." Celda replied lightly, tapping the Maiden on her head. "Every time we greet another civilization, there's a large risk that we'll die. Best to enter that situation prepped and ready for anything."

The young Asari frowned.

"But Captain, won't the Terrans hold their fire when they get a look our ship? We don't look like the Turians."

"Sure – if they think like we do." Celda chuckled dismissively. "For all we know, they could be in a blood-rage brought on by those trigger-happy turians. Basic xeno-analysis; how'd you get on this ship without going through that training?"

"I, uh, was aboard the ship for personal reasons when we left Thessia." Aeian explained sheepishly, her cheeks blushing brightly. "The personnel officer pressed me into service as your adjutant."

"It's my fault for not asking you at the time." Celda mused. "Still, that only reinforces my point. We have to be completely ready for when we go through that Relay."

"Uh, right."

"As soon as we drop out of the Relay, we broadcast the diplomatic packet. It'll only travel at light speed, so until we get a sensor reading on the Terran fleet, we can't transmit the signal directly." Celda explained. "General Oraka managed to recover enough Terran transmissions to get a working translation, but until I can meld with a Terran, we're at risk."

"Uh, how much of a risk?" Aeian questioned nervously.

Celda looked closely at the skittish Maiden's face.

"Based on your attitude, it was Liselle that brought you aboard, probably for a meld." Celda guessed, as Aeian spluttered. "It's unlikely that you're diplomatic corps, not after making that mistake. If you _were_, you'd know that what I just told you was standard first contact procedure, and you'd have shown some sign of annoyance at my repetition of basic procedure."

"Uh… that's – uh, more or less right," Aeian admitted.

"Bad luck, then. Here's hoping you don't get killed by the Terrans," Celda remarked, as she strode off. "Still, it's better if you stay in the crew quarters for the rest of this trip. We can't chance anything on this mission."

* * *

"Signaling the Relay, Captain," the navigation officer reported. "On your command."

"Communication, inform the turians of our departure," the Captain said. "Navigation, take us in."

The rest of the bridge crew was silent, the orange light from their consoles illuminating their blue faces, despite how well lit the bridge was. Their disciplined eyes looked solely at their display screens, while Celda watched the Relay's core churn and spin as it slowly grew larger.

"Jump in three, two, _one_-"

Space stretched, and Celda clenched her teeth as her stomach scrunched at the moment of acceleration.

An invisible corridor of space-time _crunched_ and _squished_ for an infinitely long moment, and then it collapsed.

"Contact package away!" a bridge officer called out.

"Sensors, what've we got?" Celda barked.

"Looks like a lot of ice and rock debris in the immediate vicinity, Captain. High probability that they only uncovered the Relay recently," the sensor officer informed. "We've pinpointed the planet. Large fleet in orbit, matching the signatures of the Terran cruisers."

"Send the second package," the Captain directed. "Helm, move us clear of the Relay, but keep your distance from that fleet. We don't want to scare the Terrans."

"The Terran fleet is moving, Captain. They're accelerating towards us, and I've got readings on additional ships inside their formation. Forty seconds to visual."

"Anything identifiable as weapons?"

"Negative; we can't detect any laser batteries or other identifiable weapons."

Celda watched, her lips pressed tight, as the signatures on the tactical map gradually came closer.

"Visual readings coming in now,"

Hulking and crude, the Terran ships were unsophisticated when compared to the sleek Asari diplomatic ship, with large unwieldy wings sweeping out, complementing the blunt hammerhead prow.

"Pan out, show me the whole fleet."

Tapping a few buttons, the sensor officer pulled the image back, showing the clumped formation as it slowly unfurled, two minutes in the past.

Celda focused her gaze on that largest ship, which was just on the line between cruiser and dreadnought. The three dots were apparently direct energy weapons, according to General Oraka, but he seemed unsure if they were lasers, fusion-powered plasma, or something more exotic.

A glint of gold in the corner of her eye pulled at her attention.

"Shift the focus, zoom in on the center of the formation," she coolly ordered, as the ships slowly spread apart, revealing a pair of golden craft.

The two ships were massive, easily dreadnought sized, and their graceful curves and almost artful design were nothing like what Oraka had reported. Unless the Terrans had two _vastly_ different philosophies, then they were dealing with a second group.

"Comms, please pass a message probe back through the Relay with this image," Celda commanded, her face controlled. "Inform General Actus that there is a high possibility that we are dealing with a second unknown species, and that he is to remain behind the Relay if contact is lost."

"Done, Captain," the comm. officer said, her tone slightly off.

"Well, let's greet our new friends." Celda announced casually. "Cut the engine power, then cut off our ballistic velocity. Broadcast the third package. Get the greeting team standing by at the main airlock, and security detail prepped but out of sight."

The bridge crew moved into action swiftly, their smooth movements attesting to their centuries of experience.

"Terran fleet is now twenty light-seconds out," the navigation officer notified. "The majority of the fleet is slowing, and is projected to stop ten light-seconds out. One Terran cruiser and one of the unidentified dreadnoughts are maintaining acceleration."

"Thank you, Liana," Celda said, smiling at her loyal friend.

"Should we send another probe to inform the turians of this movement?" Communications asked, hand hovering over her keyboard.

"No, I think not. We don't want to spook them," the Captain responded.

"The Terran fleet is coming to a full stop," warned Sensors. "The two lead ships are slowing, estimated radio communication in ten seconds."

"Standard first communication in effect," Celda called out. "No noise from the bridge crew unless necessary."

The crew all nodded, though Celda was sure that some of them were wondering why she bothered to inform them of well-known standard protocols.

While Celda was not a stickler for the rules like some other Asari, she didn't want to take any chances when dealing with_two_ new species.

"Incoming signals," Communications called out. "Audio and visual, two-dimensional, from both ships."

"Put them on the main screen," Celda replied, standing up and walking over to the main tactical screen.

The two images appeared alongside each other simultaneously, and Celda fought hard to resist the urge to gasp.

While the image of the grizzled Terran on the left matched the reports, the unknown grey alien on the right defied common sense.

The Terran, at least, appeared to be almost identical to the Asari in terms of facial structure, though the skin color was more pink, and tufts of fur waved gently on its head and lower face.

On the other side, the tall alien had no identifiable mouth, or similar organ, and its eyes were blazing outside of their sockets. Its head was tall, like a turians, and bereft of any paint or headgear, though its armor was golden and studded with glimmering blue gems.

"Greetings from the Asari Republics," the Captain said formally, nodding to the two figures. "We come in peace, and hope to prevent any further bloodshed. I am Captain Celda T'Vanse, envoy of Councilor Tevos."

"I am known as Artanis, Hierarch of the Protoss Protectorate," boomed the grey alien. "I share in belief of peace."

Mentally, Celda noted that either the translation program still had a few problems to work out, or that the Protoss were not accustomed to speaking in Terran.

Celda smiled, noting how the Terran observed the act. The similarity between their species was astonishing; maybe her fears were wrong.

"I'm Marshall James Raynor of the colony of Shanxi," acknowledged the Terran, his lips quirking into a slim smile, the familiar gesture making Celda's hopes soar. "So long as you refrain from opening fire on any Terran or Protoss ship, then I think we'll get along just fine."

* * *

x

x

x

**Omake Time**

For reference, the Omake's actual author is in parenthesis next to the Omake's title.

I do not often write these Omakes, and they **are not a confirmed part of this 'fic. **

This means that whatever happens in these Omakes **_is not actually happening._ **

Chapter 2 ended above, with Raynor talking to Celda.

x

x

x

**Kuril meets the Zerg** (Jormungandr)

_"New contacts, confirmed hostile -"_

_" ...suh squad requesting air support - we're being taken apart down here!"_

_"Spirits, they're coming out of the ground! They're coming out of the -"_

_"Focus fire on the -"_

_"...too many of them! Every time we put one down, five take its place!"_

_"My leg! My -"_

Although his attention was focused on the real-time battlefield display before him, he still caught the panicked snippets of comm. chatter from his in-field troops. While _his_ men had been caught unawares and were being systematically butchered by the apparently unending horde, those damned terrans had quickly dug themselves in as best they could in response to the bugs' presence.

They had also shifted their troop movements around, and re-arranged what equipment was being used. Their reactions were very worrying; were these reactions from personal experience? Had they encountered these beasts someplace before?

Yet, even then, they also seemed to be losing ground and positions fast, albeit at a much slower rate than his own in-disarray troops.

It was a cold comfort to him that these new _things_ were indiscriminate killers, swiping their claws and snapping their slavering jaws at both terran and turian alike.

Beside him, Commander Denarius had, without an order from himself, accessed the terran comm. network, trying to uncover any new intelligence about this new element on the battlefield.

_"..amnit, it's Tarsonis all over again!"_

_"...need nuclear support - too many- "_

_"Incoming Screechers! Get your shit together and under cover, marines, because those winged bastards are coming in hot and fast!__"_

_"...Medic, we need a medic- "_

_"This is it, men! We've got zerg coming in from the north, west, and east! Prepare to engage!"_

That last snippet caught his attention; _zerg_? Hadn't that terran, Raynor, mentioned that word? Were these abominations them?

Suddenly, the ground began to ominously rumble; equipment started to vibrate off desks and shelves, slowly at first, and the horrid sound of rock being ground against rock began to overpower the ongoing symphony of war and fury.

**Boom!**

From across the square, the General stared in horror and disbelief as something huge and worm-like broke free from its underground prison, its high pitched roar sending a chill down even his spine.

_A thresher maw? Here? No, not a thresher...it's too different..._

Strangely, for a brief moment, utter silence descended across the battlefield as it balanced precariously upright; the worm thing's only visible and big, orange eye seemed to swivel around and then focus in on the general location of the Command Post.

His eyes widened; the faux thresher screamed in rage as it plummeted back to the ground.

Its jaws began to unhinge, and he could suddenly spy movement within the endless rows of the faux-maw's teeth. Dozens upon dozens of shapes, large and small, began to scramble out and away from its mouth, heading towards his Command Post's defenses.

There was no way they could hold against those numbers from an unknown enemy.

As the sounds of desperate gunfire and roars drew closer, he made a snap decision to retreat.

x

x

x

x

**Pirate Queens** or **Meeting the Competition** (Sneaky Walrus)

Thumping beats, blinding lights, a multitude of people of all genders and species swaying back and forth, wrapped in a drunken ecstasy of sexual violence and noise.

Many a being danced and gyrated beneath the thundering speakers, as dancing colors hypnotically flashed through the entire spectrum.

Radiating outwards from this drunken centerpiece, the floor bent upwards towards numerous bars and chairs, all of them occupied by those not drunk enough to start dancing.

Beneath all the music, the lights, the sexual carnage, standing above on an insulted platform, stood the symbol of Omega.

The veritable end of the Terminus Systems.

A fleet able to rival any within the Terminus was at her beck and call.

Thousands of men and women look to her and call her their master and lord.

_Aria. _

The Queen of Omega.

And to be honest, it was a fairly interesting night for her. Already she was inundated with numerous requests, demands, gifts and other such babble.

Because tonight, one of the newest additions to the galaxy, one of the few groups to actually ruffle the plates of the Turian Hierarchy, had parked their Dreadnought-class ship outside her station, and were enjoying a drink, _free of charge,_ in her place of power  
Plans and plots soaked into her mind, her eyes scanning the few data pads before her.

Something sounded from the stairs leading to her balcony, the rough voice of Grizz echoing upwards over the slight beating of the music that reverberated through the floor.

A quick sweep of her hand, and the various pads were swept into the open receptacles that surrounded her small table, storing them for later viewing.

A scant moment later, and Grizz appeared at the top of her stairs.

'Boss, you have a visitor. One of the new aliens. Apparently it's some big shot looking to talk to whoever's in charge of this place.'

'And why did you think I would be interested, Grizz?'

"I-er- Boss, she was saying something along the lines o-'

A smaller figure pushed past her, ignoring the rest of Aria's guards raising their weapons towards it.

'Oh, I just felt like I should talk to whoever iz in charge of such a lovely station. It is so _similar_ to my own that I just _had_ to come meet whoever runs zis place.'

The creature stood next the couches across from Aria, the strangely colored mop of pink hair atop its head splaying out across the googles it wore.

'And such generosity! It is almost as if whoever is in charge wishes to, how do I say, _make friends_ with the newest arrivals.'

A small panel folded out of the creatures arm, a basic screen covered with a variety of numbers covering it.

'Ah, but I have so little time to chat. My dear husband appears to be drunk, and I would hate for him to take anyone else home but me.'

A little giggle left its lips while it plucked the screen of its arm, detaching it from a number of wires and laid it down upon Aria's table.

'If you wish to make any closer contact in the future, give me a call. There is much business to be _discussed_.'

And with that, it turned and sauntered away, before turning just before her guards.

'Just ask for Mira Han. Or Horner, whichever you prefer'

Aria simply watched as the creature wander out back into the crowd, locking lips with what Aria knew to be the Captain of the docked vessel before grabbing him by the shoulders and roughly dragging him away.

'Boss?'

'No, Grizz, let them go. This may prove to be a _very_ interesting opportunity.'

x

x

x

x

**Enter the Ancients** (Sneaky Walrus)

Joram sat slightly away from his men, his eyes flicking across the rickety metal fence that he suspected was thrown up a few minutes after the Terrans had accepted their surrender. He turned and glanced across to the higher ranked officers, the few remaining huddling together in a separate pack from the majority of their forces.

He was one of the few middling military commanders that had survived the conflicts, especially rare considering the Terrans eliminating them as they commanded in the field. He'd seen his allies, men he'd served with since basic, cut down by invisible assassins or turned into spike ridden corpses. Officers of his own rank had barely survived, and as such, he was segregated inside the camp not by the Terrans, but by his peoples own societal values.  
Still, he knew his position and would serve. And to do that, he had to observe the Terrans moving across from his pen.

He could tell it was a flimsy, rickshaw of a cell, something that the Turians would never build, especially at such a low standard, but the chain-linked fences allowed him an excellent view of the Terran forces moving around. It also allowed him to view the defenses that had been constructed, especially the numerous robotic mines and other large war machines.  
As he looked over the numerous vehicles traveling in front of the fence, he was again amazed by the Terran's methods of war. He had seen massive tanks shifting forms into artillery pieces, colossal walkers bearing weaponry that wouldn't be out of place on a ship of the line and, bizarrely, a soldier 'herding' a squad of those horrific robotic mines away to a storage shed. One or two had run off, still running and hiding around the fences as the Terran's ran after them, climbing and scaling the walls.

Something new had currently taken his attention however.  
A bizarre, gold plated drone, hovering across the camp, followed by a number of soldiers and unarmed civilians. Strangely enough, it looked nothing like the roughly made drones of the Terran's. Instead, it was built with flowing arcs and multiple crystals inset into its chassis, a massive blue 'eye' at its front. He glanced upwards, eying the massive drone clinging to the fence above his head, its 'eye' shifting a rotating on his movement, the massive, unwieldy missile racks perched on its back shifting and readjusting to keep it in place.

_No, nothing like the Terrans at all._

A shifting noise, similar to the horrific sound of a biotic warp echoed across the camp, prompting the rest of the Turian forces to raise their heads in interest.

A hole in reality was forming, solidifying into a massive blue crystal, surrounded by a incredibly delicate golden band rotating around it.  
Now this held Joram's attention, not to mention the rest of the Turian commanders.  
Before them, shifting squares and shinning blue light danced and birthed out of nothing, the Turian's in awe of what the assumed was a Terran weapon. Joram shifted his view, noticing something else. The Terran's had their weapons trained on the crystal, the massive walker lowering its cannons and focusing on the Crystal.

_But why would they?_

The light spun and shifted, solidifying before them, growing into a massive being, standing larger even than the Yagh or the Elcor, golden plates indented with crystals glowing brightly and blue scales forming. Two blades of pure light, longer than Joram's entire arm extended from what he assumed were gloves, the light flickering away before any of the other Turians noticed. Its head was the last to form, a horrific thing lacking anything beyond two glowing eyes, filled with burning blue light.  
Legs similar to the great hunters of Pavalen, armed in what appeared to be massive robotic parts, bent as the thing moved forward.

It walked up to what Joram assumed was the Terran commander, before bowing its head in some form of acknowledgment. As the Terran's began to move away, multiple lights formed and jumped in, producing more and more of these massive creatures. More and more appeared, some in the form of more miniature drones like the previous, others being solid balls of energy with a golden plates hovering before them, single great eyes similar to the gold plated drone carved into them. More war machines, walkers more delicate the Terran's own began to appear, horrific amalgamations of flesh, machine and the void, clad in dark plates and offset with eerie green crystals that absorbed the lights that surrounded them.

Finally, a massive mech appeared, like something from the age of titans. Four massive legs carried it forth, wielded together into a single plate holding up a massive carved statuesque figure and armed with two cannons that dwarfed any Joram had seen so far. The massive machine walked over to the two alien commanders, the Terran commander roughly saluted and the massive alien bowed its body in half to the machine. In response, it performed a strange bouncing motion, tilting its massive body forward on its front legs and moving its cannons in a strange pattern.

As more and more lights materialized from nothing, supplying new materials and aliens to this world, Joram could only watch. He saw those aliens talk and laugh with each other, rivalries being continued and jests being made. He saw weapons change hand, along with numerous bottles of liquids and such.  
Despite the famed Turian discipline, he let out a slight croak.

_What the hell are those things? _

Overhead, a massive golden carrier warped in, signaling the arrive of something from beyond the Void.

x

x

x

**Terran Bars are the Best** (Archons)

*Somewhere deep within Zerg space*

"Izsha," came a quiet mumble from the nervous center of the Levithan, "Izsha, get in here..._"_

On an ordinary day, Izsha, personal advisor of Serah Kerrigan, the Queen of Blades, would have answered the call readily.

"Izsha," came the voice again, this time somewhat more firmly than before, "Izshaaaaa."

Today...was not an ordinary day.

"_Izsha_," the voice called yet again, this time with a degree of harshness and accompanied by a psyionic compulsion that brokered no disobediance, "_get in here **right now!**_"

Hesitantly, the uniquely formed advisor zerg descended from the network of cavities she used to quickly navigate the Leviathan, only to be met with a rather strange sight. On the far side of the room, covered in the shadows thrown by the miniature spawning pool that blocked out the light from the ocular viewing array, sat the Queen of Blades herself. However, instead of her traditional regal and powerful posture, she sat back slumped up against the wall, legs tucked in front of her chest, and hands rubbing her temples.

"Y-yes, my Queen?" Izsha answered hesitantly, "H-how may I serve you?"

"Izsha, their doing... _it..._ again" came the quiet reply.

"'It', my Queen?" Izsha questioned, careful not to let too much confusion show on her face.

Kerrigan shuttered and let out a groan as a wave of pain swept over her body. "Yes Izsha, that..._frog alien_ that we assimilated during a last week's raid, the one Abathur requested be put under his command..." She paused to let another shutter pass. "They're _experimenting_ again."

Izsha blinked, this time not bothering to try and hide the confusion plainly evident on her face. "But, my Queen," she asked, "is this not a good thing? The amphibious creature had essence strongly compatible with Abathur's and together they have increased our evolution rates have increased three fold."

"_**I KNOW**_," Kerrigan all but screamed before quickly shoving her face back into the soothing dark of her hands, "but Izsha, I _am_ the swarm. I feel the wills and emotions of anything and _everything _under my command. But Abathur and this new one are just so... so...**_ enthusiastic_** about their work."

"Should I instruct them to stop with their research, my Queen?"

"Not yet..." there was another pause as Kerrigan let out another groan of pain, "just...set a course for Shanxi."

Apparently today was full of surprises, as far as Izsha could tell. "Does this mean you wish to break our neutrality with the Terran Jim Raynor? Are we to test the newest creations of this 'Mordin?'"

"**_NO!_**" Kerrigan answered sharply, "I...I need to get a drink."

x

x

x

x

**Surrender? What the hell is that? **(Aldrin)

Silence finally fell across the city as the last Turian forces stopped fighting back and raised their weapons in the air, signaling their surrender to the Terran defenders.

"Guys, I- I think they're surr... surrendering" The marine struggled with the almost forgotten word.

_"They're what?"_ Came the outraged voice of Commander Raynor from the radio.

"They're surrendering," the Marine repeated, "_what do we do!?"_


	3. Chapter 3

"Sir?"

"At ease, Sebastian," Matt Horner replied, waving lightly at the bright hologram of his friend, which took up the center of Damage Control, deep within the bowels of the _Hyperion_.

"With respect, Matt, I'd be much happier if you make it quick. The _Ragnarök _might be a tough old girl, but I've got repairs to take care of. Say, why aren't you on the bridge?"

"Jim's talking with the aliens on the bridge, and I want to keep this quiet. Don't worry about your repairs; you'll have plenty of time to fix all the internal problems while in warp."

Sebastian's face tightened, and he opened his mouth to protest.

"Stow it," Matt interrupted quickly, keeping his tone as polite as possible. "I _know_ that now is a bad time to weaken the fleet by sending you away, but this takes priority."

Sebastian frowned, but he nodded nonetheless.

"What do you need?"

"You need an explanation, first," Matt replied, rubbing his head wearily. "Before we left Koprulu, Jim and I left a message behind, using Mike Liberty's old network. The message was for anybody who wanted to find a safe haven."

"But we loaded our ships with whoever wanted to go, and I _know_ that the _Bucephalus_ and the _Hyperion_ still had room for passengers." Sebastian protested. "With all the chaos after the Dominion's fall, there can't be many innocent people left!"

Matt shrugged.

"Life finds a way. You know that as well as I do, especially after the first Great War."

"Alright, then. What do you need me to do?"

"The message indicated a safe planet just on the outer edges of the Sector, where we would pick up anyone who wanted to leave Koprulu behind them."

"But what about leaving the enemy a straight path to us?"

"It's not directly in line with our path to Shanxi, so there isn't a chance of looters or pirates chasing us down," Matt explained, tapping the controls and bringing up the image of a verdant, green world.

"Haven?" Sebastian muttered, recognizing the old colony world. "Curious choice."

"Jim picked it. After we extracted Dr. Hanson and her colonists, we thought it would be the best spot for our safe planet, since most of the colonist's non-mobile buildings were still there."

"And a group of armed pirates looking for easy prey would either know to stay away or run right into the Protoss," Sebastian followed easily. "Very clever, but how did you get that Protoss woman - uh, what was her name?"

"Selendis. Executor Selendis, Artanis's right hand woman."

"Yes, her. How did you get her to allow it, after all that fuss we had the first time?"

"It took some negotiation at first, but the Protoss eventually agreed to let Terran refugees stay there, as long as it's only temporary," Matt clarified. "Which is why I'm sending you and the _Ragnarök _back to Haven to pick up whoever's there."

"Plus, it may give these aliens the impression that we have more ships to bring here to Shanxi," Sebastian agreed.

"Which is why you should leave as soon as possible."

"Agreed, I'll depart in five minutes," Sebastian said, nodding his shaven head.

* * *

The air-conditioning drones quietly in the corner, concealed vents indistinguishable from the dull grey metal that made up the cramped cell, especially in the dark.

Though it's ceiling was surprisingly high, the cell was small enough that the table took up most of the room.

His chair was uncomfortable, which was obviously intentional, and his wrists ached from the manacles clamping them down.

The door slammed opened with a _bang_, making him wince at the harsh noise, while the sudden burst of light blinded him.

He was fairly sure that his captors were more than capable of having silent automated doors, but the raw effect of slamming a door open simply couldn't be replaced.

"Ah, how are you today?" he asked, forcing his discomfort aside as he displayed a perfect politician's smile. "I'd get up to shake your hand, but, of course…"

The interrogator paused for a moment in the doorway, unwilling to admit that he'd been put off by his prisoner. He stood there for a moment, silhouetted against the light.

"Cheery bastard," the interrogator grumbled as he took his seat. "Are you ready to answer the questions?"

"Can't we have a polite conversation?" he inquired respectfully. "There's no reason we can't be civil."

"Polite is rarely shown after hostiles begin."

"_Politeness_ is rarely shown after _hostilities_ begin," he corrected graciously. "Or 'civility is rarely shown after hostilities begin', but that sentence is still too awkward."

"Enough distraction: time to answer the questions."

"Well then, which one are we starting with this time? If you're following the your usual pattern, then it should be-"

_**BBBBZZZZZZZZ**_

The interrogator glanced over at one of the walls irritably.

"I think that's for you," he said to the interrogator, an apologetic smile on his face. "For what it's worth, I apologize for all the trouble I've personally given you. It can't be easy to be in charge of someone like me."

The interrogator let loose a low rumble under his breath again, as he grumpily stood and stomped over to the door.

The door slammed shut, leaving him alone with his thoughts for a few moments.

He smirked, lowering his head and cracking his neck.

Well now, wasn't_ that_ an interesting turn of events.

It wasn't often that an interrogation got canceled before it could even start, though he couldn't rule out the possibility of it just being a trick.

The door creaked, and he glanced up in time to see another turian enter the room.

"Greetings. My deepest apologies, but I'm afraid I don't know your name," he said pleasantly.

The turian didn't reply, merely stepping closer, the bulk of his black armor filling up the confined cell very quickly.

A quick swipe of a keycard unlocked his shackles, letting them clatter to the table.

"Thank you," he murmured gratefully, though the interrogator didn't respond. "Am I to assume that I'm being moved?"

The turian nodded.

Carefully, he stood, walking with the turian towards the door without another word.

His legs screamed in pain, no doubt due to his long confinement to that chair, but he refused to show it, affixing his political poker face firmly.

The rough, itchy prison clothes scratched at his skin, and the curious translating device attached to his neck ached slightly.

In addition, his ears were quite sore. The translator's earbuds had been in for the duration of his stay, and they obviously weren't designed with a Terran in mind.

Still, he was free to move for the first time in (what he believed to be) twenty-four hours, so that was something.

"Wait," the turian said, holding out something in his clenched talon.

"Ah, a blindfold? Of course, one can never be too careful," he replied, tugging the blindfold on.

"I'm not stupid," the turian rumbled, as he fixed the blindfold, completely engulfing his vision in darkness.

"I must confess, I _was_ hoping you wouldn't do that," he said, grimacing slightly.

"Too bad," the turian said, pushing him lightly, forcing him to walk forward blindly.

He stumbled, but managed to regain his balance before he smashed into anything. He quickly adjusted his balance and gait to his lack of vision, walking slowly to prevent any accidents.

"So, would this be the doing of the Hierarchy, or of the Council?" he asked, his tone pleasant and polite.

The turian paused, then pushed him again.

"Why do you think that the Council is separate from the Hierarchy?"

"There are a few reasons. The first indication is the fact that you are the _only_ one escorting me. I doubt that's standard procedure. Combine that with the genuine irritation in my friend's expression when you pulled him out of my room. While it could be faked, his expression was curiously familiar, like he knew what was interrupting him."

"You comprehend turian gestures after a single day?"

He shrugged.

"I am a politician. It comes naturally."

"A _single_ day_?"_

"I am a _good_ politician."

"I do not doubt that, based on what your interrogator said. And how_ exactly_ did you hear about the Council?"

"Like I said, I'm good. I was taught by best, after all."

He smiled, amused at this playful banter, as the turian guided him through twisting hallways.

"You know, I believe that I would be inclined to be helpful if I knew your name."

"Nihlus Kryik. Council Spectre."

"I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, Nihlus, but I'm afraid that _that_ would be incorrect. Still, I must thank you for answering my question."

"What's yours?"

"Didn't my friend tell you?"

"No, he didn't."

"Well then, my name is Valerian Mengsk."

* * *

"I promise you, Marshall James Raynor, the Asari mean you no harm," Celda T'Vanse assured, smiling gently at the worn face of the Terran. "Please, understand that the Turian Hierarchy is being punished for their arrogance."

The Terran didn't reply, merely pressing his lips tight and narrowing his eyes, like a predator might.

"But first, I think it would be wise for us to meet personally," Celda continued. "You see, my species has the power to learn languages in a matter of second, through an ancient asari ability. While a lot of hard work went into this translator, I doubt it is working flawlessly."

"What do you mean, 'an ancient ability'?" Raynor questioned, his sharp gaze betraying his doubt. "Your word picking isn't entering suitably."

"Translator error, I'm sure," Celda nodded. "We asari can _meld_ with a being, no matter _what_ that being is, with no negative side-effects. We link our nervous systems, sharing memories between our minds. This way, we can learn new languages in a matter of seconds."

"Artanis, have you ever heard of somethin' like this?" the Terran asked, as Celda held her breath unconsciously, her roiling emotions a mixture of excitement and dread at what the Protoss would say.

"I have not, friend Raynor," the Protoss boomed, tilting his head to the side, as if in thought, a gesture that he must have picked up from the Terrans. "Though unfamiliar, it appears to be similar to a closer form of the _Kah-la_, possible between two Protoss. It is akin to a lesser _Ar-kon _bond, friend Raynor."

"Forgive me, but what is the _Kah-la?_" Celda asked politely, curious at this strange word.

"No apology is necessary," Artanis rumbled warmly. "The Khala is the code of the Khalai, a _psi-on-ic_ link that connects the Protoss. This 'meld' that you describe is similar to it."

Celda's eyes widened, and she struggled to hold her composure, while quiet mutterings started up in the crew pit.

Quickly, she reached one hand past the hologram's sight-range and made a harsh cutting gesture, silencing her crew, even though she could feel the same shock in her head.

"Your species can meld?" she asked, her tone slipping slightly and the words coming out quickly. "Join thoughts and minds, and become one being?"

The Protoss nodded.

"To my knowledge, it is the same."

Celda's heart lurched unsteadily, and she had to blink and regain control of her breath.

"That is – that's astonishing. To our knowledge, the asari were the only ones capable of melding," Celda informed Raynor and Artanis, her poker face starting to slide. "Please, would it be possible to meet in person? I would love to greet you face to face aboard my ship, so that we can begin a peaceful dialog in earnest."

Raynor's eyes glanced to the side, looking at something Celda couldn't see, while Artanis merely tilted his head again.

"Yeah, I think meeting in person would be good," Raynor agreed, turning back to the holo-screen. "But the meeting should take place aboard my ship."

"I would recommend that the meeting take place on my ship, Marshall James Raynor," she replied apologetically. "My ship is designed first and foremost for diplomacy, and is better suited to handle any translation problems. We carry both levo and dextro food, and can change our chamber to handle any atmosphere. Essentially, we are better equipped to maintain the highest level of comfort during diplomatic talks."

"Well then, we aren't meeting," Raynor responded, folding his arms and leaning back slightly. "The turians attacked us without provocation, and my people planet-side are scared. We don't trust easily, especially after something like that. It'll send a better signal to my people if you come over to our ship, something that'll help them get over the pain quicker."

"You've put some thought into this." Celda observed, as she resigned herself to the Terran's request.

After all, negotiation was composed of giving and taking. Concessions had to be made, especially something as trivial as the meeting place.

She had to allow this, because unlike any other first contact, the Citadel didn't have an obvious technological superiority.

Oh, she'd seen the reports about the lack of kinetic barriers of Terran infantry, for the use of her on-board detachment of asari commandos, and she'd read the initial brief that an STG/Asari analysis team had whipped up in half an hour, but those reports didn't show the big picture.

What _mattered_ was that the Terrans had some form of FTL, to settle this world as a colony, but they had clearly only discovered the Mass Relay network recently.

It meant that the Terrans didn't need to depend on the network, which meant that they didn't need to play nice with the Council.

Which meant that she, as the leading diplomat, had to play this very carefully, so that the wealth of Terran technology and culture was shared with the galaxy.

This was the opportunity of a millennium, and she wasn't going to be the one to mess it up.

"No chance there's a war that you need us to fight?" Raynor asked with a strange inflection to his voice, a slight smirk on his lips. "That seems like the best way t' make friends these days – on the battlefield."

"Indeed, friend Raynor," Artanis replied, his booming voice tingling with a slightly chuckling tone.

Celda watched the friendly exchange with curiosity, as Raynor's tone had sounded as if it was from experience, which revealed a lot about Terran-Protoss interactions.

"In that case, I would gladly join you on your ship, James Raynor," Celda said finally, putting on another gentle smile. "I don't want to cause any more damage, especially after such a traumatic event."

"It'll take some rebuildin', but we'll bounce back," Raynor shrugged. "We always do. Oh, and could you bring along a few translation devices?"

Blinking at the odd request, Celda nodded automatically, her features shifting in confusion.

"Of course, but why do you want them? The meld will allow us to understand each other perfectly, and melding almost always works, regardless of physiology," Celda explained, curious and puzzled.

"Oh, I trust your word, darlin', but I'd like to have a translator or two so we c'n talk to our prisoners," Raynor said, as Celda's smiling poker face suddenly became much harder to maintain. "At the moment, we need a Protoss to translate, and that's a slow way of talkin'."

"Of course," Celda replied, nodding mechanically, showing none of her inner chaos. "Understandable."

"Plus, I want to Kuril and ask him why he decided to invade our planet. He's behaved honorably so far, but we can't ignore the fact that his boys killed thousands of my people, and he has to answer for that."

Celda nodded again, as her throat constricted and her heart pounded audibly in her ears.

"The Asari Republics are very happy to grant your request, Marshall James Raynor," she said formally. "I will arrive in an unarmed shuttlecraft within… let's say one-twentieth of your planet's rotation? Did that translate? I need to make sure that there is no risk from contagions, as well as look through the first contact package you broadcast."

"That'll work wonderfully, Ms. T'Vanse," Raynor replied. "No worries about the translation – that's roughly an _hour_, as we say. I'll have the docking bay illuminated for you, with a fighter escort and a steady radio signal, so that we can prevent any mishaps."

"Of course, James Raynor." Celda nodded courteously. "That sounds perfect. Until then, farewell."

The holo-screen blinked out, and Celda let out a long breath, closing her eyes as she rubbed her forehead.

"…Captain?"

"Yes, Comms?" she replied, keeping her eyes closed.

"I've taken the liberty of informing the diplomatic team of the upcoming visit, and Dr. T'Vellos is demanding to leave now."

She sighed, glancing idly at the light gray and blue metal plating on the ceiling as she responded.

"Tell T'Vellos to shut up, and to get the diplomatic team into the central meeting room. Give them the recording of that dialog, and tell them to star working_ now_, because our initial reports were _wrong_, and we're playing off the wrong game plan. We need an entirely new approach, and I need it within an hour."

"Understood, Captain," Communications nodded, quickly tapping in the commands on her console.

"Then get ready to broadcast a tight-beamed message back through the Relay, top priority to the Council _only_," Celda continued, taking a moment to stretch in the confines her stiff chair.

"Ready to record, Captain," Communications called out with a nod of acknowledgment.

"Right…" Celda murmured, trying to gather her numerous panicked thoughts into a concise report.

She paused in thought, took another deep breath, then began.

"Message begins: To the Council, this is Captain Celda T'Vanse. We have made first contact with the Terrans, as well as with another new species, known as the Protoss," she stated clearly, pausing as she wondered how to phrase her next statement.

Oh well, she shrugged, might as well be blunt; it'll save some time.

"The Protoss are allies of the Terrans, and brought at least two dreadnoughts to support them. Our initial evaluations of the Terrans were _wrong_; they did not open fire _or_ act aggressive towards the diplomatic greeting," Celda continued, keeping her voice strictly professional.

"They appear to be welcome to the idea of a peaceful co-existence, but from their appearance, they are ready to fight if another attack were to happen.

"Also, it appears that the report General Oraka submitted was incorrect. Not only are the Terrans much less aggressive than we've been led to believe, but they also took the turian ground forces prisoner, rather than slaughter them all like Oraka suggested.

"The apparent Terran leader, one 'Marshal James Raynor', wants translators so that he can speak with General Kuril, who he identified by name. He did mention that the Protoss were able to translate between the two species, but indicated that that particular method was awkward.

"In addition, the Protoss leader, by the name of 'Artanis' expressed interest in Asari melding. He – he implied that the Protoss have a similar method of mental union, and that this was universal amongst his species.

"In short, our estimates were _way _off, and my diplomatic team is revaluating our diplomatic stance as I speak. This is a fragile peace at the moment, so I advise that we keep all ship, military or not, away from the other end of this Relay.

"Message ends. Send it immediately, Comms."

"Aye aye, Captain," the young Communications officer replied.

A few moments passed silently as the Captain reclined in her chair, lost in thought.

"…Captain?"

"Yes, Comms?"

"I understand the regulations about professional, Captain, but…"

"Heh. Don't worry, girl, I don't bite, no matter what the old hands have been telling you."

"Well, Captain, I just want to know what we've found here. Is this… is this a windfall or a time bomb?"

Celda sighed, staring at the mottled blue-and-gray ceiling.

"I wish I knew, Comms. I wish I knew."

* * *

The shuttle jolted, sending a shudder of force through the white bodywork.

"Just the artificial gravity, Captain," the pilot says, frowning as she adjusts her controls. "Sorry about the shudder – if I had to guess, I'd say that the Terrans don't care to make the transition smooth. That, or they don't have enough control over the tech."

"Thanks for the input, but that's my problem," Celda responded kindly, laying a reassuring hand on the pilot's shoulder. "Keep the engines dialed down after you land – we don't want to frighten the Terrans any more than the turians have."

"Understood, Captain."

Celda flattened out her gown one more time apprehensively, glancing at each of the four black-clad commandos that formed her security detail.

"Remember, stay inside the shuttle unless I specifically call for you," she told them, her voice steady even though her hands clenched nervously.

"We know, Captain. You don't need to remind us," replied the squad leader, who was an old friend of Celda's. "Take a breath, Captain, it's going to be fine."

"Sorry, didn't mean for it to be that obvious," Celda apologized, a weak smile on her lips.

"It's not – we all feel the same way. Just keep in mind that no matter how badly this goes, you're still going to do better than the turians."

"Aliza, those are your _allies_," Celda reprimanded sharply, glaring at the brash commando.

"Doesn't make it any less true. The turians messed up, and everybody knows it. The only question is who gets the blame."

"Yes, this line of thought is doing _wonders_ for my confidence right now," Celda snarked, rolling her eyes. "If only _every_commando had your lack of manners."

"With respect, ma'am, I think I'm helping your confidence quite a bit, if you're joking like that," the commando replied shrewdly. "Just let the tension out, ma'am."

Celda chuckled, conceding defeat.

There wasn't anything more to say, so the four commandos took up their positions by the shuttle's door, carefully out of sight, as the shuttle shook lightly again.

"We're down, Captain," the pilot called back, as she flipped a few switches and powered down the engine. "Looks like a small welcoming committee is waiting for you."

"Thank you, sister. Let's hope this goes well," Celda nodded thankfully, before palming the door's green holographic icon, briefly admiring the shuttle's pristine white and blue paintjob.

The door slid open silently, and Celda stepped out onto the Terran ship proudly and confidently, smiling as she did.

The armored Terrans were the first thing she noticed, four of them standing ten meters away with boxy rifles in hand.

They kept the barrels point to the ground, but Celda carefully observed how that wouldn't stop them from immediately opening fire, if they need to.

Two more Terrans stood closer, looking quite dissimilar as she walked briskly forward.

She recognized one of them; Marshall James Raynor, the one who spoke for the Terrans over the holocomm.

Raynor was still dressed in his worn and stained clothes, as if he had just come from a machine shop, but his eyes told Celda to be very careful about underestimating him.

The other Terran also had dark fur atop his head, but his chin and lower face were clear, displaying a solid jawline. His face was chiseled from stone and just as emotionless, the sign of tight emotional discipline.

Unlike Raynor, this Terran was clad in dark formal clothing with golden buttons, with two large pauldrons. His hands were gloved, and his bearing was distinctly military, similar to numerous turians Celda knew.

Despite the apparent difference between the two men, there was a faint sign of familiarity between them. Presumably, the two had worked together before.

For a brief moment, she internally grimaced, painfully aware of how formal she looked when compared to the two informally dressed Terrans.

While beautiful, the long white gown of an asari diplomat did not appear similar to the garb of the Terrans, and that might cost her some initial camaraderie.

She stopped walking a respectful meter from the two Terrans, still smiling politely.

"It is a pleasure to meet you in person, Marshall James Raynor," she said respectfully, nodding to him.

"Likewise, Celda T'Vanse. Please, just call me Jim," Raynor replied cordially, stepping forward and extending his hand.

Celda paused momentarily, unsure about the gesture, but she mimicked him quickly, holding her right hand out as well.

Raynor took another step, clasping her hand with his, and shaking it once, firmly. He smiled, nodding as he stepped back.

It must be a common greeting ritual, Celda mused. Clasp the right hand with your right, then shake it up, then down. Simple enough.

Perhaps she'd underestimated the Terrans? Just because their technology appeared brutish for all its advancement didn't mean that their culture was similar, after all.

"Celda, this is my good friend Matt," Raynor continued, introducing his comrade.

'Matt' also stepped forward, and Celda smoothly shook his hand, the awkwardness of the first handshake noticeably absent.

"My name is Matt Horner, Ms. T'Vanse," Horner greeted, bending at the waist and inclining his head slightly.

Celda's eyes widened as the Terran carefully pulled her hand closer, before kissing the back of it with elegant grace.

"A pleasure to meet you," Horner said cordially, locking eyes with Celda for a moment, before breaking off and stepping back to his stop.

Yes, Celda had _definitely_ underestimated the Terrans.

For a brief moment, she let her eyes wander across the landing bay, taking in the faint aroma of oil and grease that was undoubtedly coming from hastily put away mechanical tools.

The deck and walls were all made out a dark metal, which faint yellow lines industrially painted at crisscrossing intersections.

Then, as she quickly glanced around, she saw them.

Over to the side, tucked away almost out of sight behind her shuttle, an _enormous_ tank sat inactive.

It used simple tracks, unlike the modern hover-technology that the turians employed, but that only added to the sheer presence that the weapon had.

In particular, the intimidating bulk of the massive cannon unnerved her, making her wonder why they would need such a powerful ground weapon when they clearly had the capability for orbital bombardment.

In the farthest corner stood a large mechanical walker, with a pair of large cylindrical weapons hefted underneath twinned racks of missiles.

The entire machine was massive, easily topping seven meters, and a bizarre amount of exposed servos and gears could be seen beneath its weaponized arms.

Celda was amazed at the sight of the two war machines, but she smoothly looked back at her hosts, having only glanced away for a moment.

"Will Hierarch Artanis be joining us?" Celda inquired politely, clasping her hands in front of her as she glimpsed the blue armored Terrans over James Raynor's shoulder.

"He'll be here soon, Celda," Raynor replied, nodding at something past her shoulder. "Here he comes now."

Celda turned, catching sight of a gleaming gold Protoss craft that was just entering the docking bay.

The craft was about the size of her shuttle, but it was _strange_.

She gazed at it, wondering curiously about the blue crystal at the center of the craft, and why it had no airtight compartment.

In fact, the device didn't seem to have _any_ airtight section, for it was composed of golden outlines, akin to wings, which were wrapped around the central crystal.

Blue light shone between the wings, almost like a web or membrane of energy, and a 'nose' of four shaped golden plates appeared to be its front.

As she watched, the craft slowed gracefully to a stop, despite lacking an engine _or_ a mass effect core.

Then it began to change.

The 'nose' moved upwards, to point at the ceiling, and the 'wings' of golden metal fanned outward, revealing the crystal inside as it slowly spun in place.

Confused, Celda opened her mouth to ask what the craft was, when a sudden beam of blue light shot out of the crystal, spreading faintly across the immediate area.

As she watched, a bright blue-white blur _materialized_ into place beneath the crystal, the hazy shape slowly growing more defined as the light faded.

Awestruck, Celda stared as the light fades, leaving in its place a tall being with grey skin and clad in golden plate-armor. Eyes like a pair of miniature novas blazed on a craggy grey face, and all the while the being strode towards them with long, fluid steps.

Oh_ Goddess_, he just **_teleported_**.

Celda couldn't even being to imagine how STG was going to react when they learned that the Protoss could _casually __**snap **__the laws of physics_ just so that they _didn't have to sit in a shuttle_.

If she were a hundred years younger, she would probably be gaping, mouth ajar, at the _impossibility _that had nonetheless happened _right in front of her_.

As the Protoss stepped closer, his boots _clicked_ softly on the deck plating, and Celda had to tilt her head back to look at his eyes.

Protoss, Celda realized numbly, were _tall_.

While Terran armor seemed to add a third of a meter to their height, Raynor and Horner were around the average height on an asari.

In stark contrast, the majestic Protoss before her must have topped out at three meters tall, and it _showed_.

"Greeting, Hierarch Artanis," Celda welcomed politely, bowing her head in respect. "It is a pleasure to meet you in person."

"The pleasure is mine, Celda T'Vanse," Artanis boomed, his voice echoing around her, causing a miniscule flinch from Celda. "I apologize for any discomfort that my speech brings you. The people of the Protoss communicate through the vibration of air particles, but without a mouth, our speech cannot be directed as easily as yours might."

"It also tends to _boom_ a little when they speak," Raynor said musingly, rubbing his furred chin as he nodded to the tall Protoss, unintimidated by the height difference. "Good to see you again, Artanis."

"As always, friend Raynor, the honor is mine," Artanis replied, bowing to Raynor, who merely waved him off.

"Are my expressions so easily read, Hierarch Artanis?" Celda asked curiously, as her awe began to fade. "I have noted some similarity between asari and Terran expressions, but I did not think it would be enough to notice."

"Your gestures were well-concealed, Celda T'Vanse, but I have considerable experience with Terran expressions. Your self-control is admirable," Artanis rumbled, bowing his head respectfully towards her.

"Thank you for the compliment, Hierarch," Celda smiled, nodding back to him.

"Don't worry, you get used to the Protoss after a while," Raynor informed her casually. "It just takes some getting used 'to. 'Course, it might just be a translator error."

"Yes, it might well be," Celda responded, turning back to Raynor. "Luckily, the meld will help with any translation issues. After sharing the meld, it is quite simple for me to speak 'English', just as it is simple for you to speak asari."

"Oh, of course. I'm sorry for holding this all up with chat," Raynor returned apologetically. "I'm sorry to say this, but I don't think I'm going to meld with you, darlin'. It's nothing personal, but I've got a lot of _unpleasant_ memories locked up in my head that I'd rather not have you suffer through."

"It's entirely understandable, Jim," Celda reassured him, making sure to use his preferred name. "The meld is very malleable, and it is a simple matter to protect the memories of those sharing in it. Anything that someone wishes to keep hidden is left alone. It is a pleasant process, and is quite enjoyable."

"Nonetheless, I'd still rather not go through it," Raynor politely but firmly refused. "Please don't mistake this for some kinda insult; we'd still like for someone to meld with you. Tosh, c'mon over."

Raynor turned around, waving a hand vaguely at the four armor-clad Terrans near the back of the bay.

Celda blinked, and a muscular Terran slipped out from behind one of the Terrans in armor, moving closer in a way that could only be described as _stalking_.

A more slender form followed, and Celda's eyes widened as she beheld the female.

The female was silent, and her dark expression broadcast her dislike of the situation, but the _similarities_ between her and Celda were _unmistakable_.

The lithe form, the swell of mammary tissue, the sculpted face – the Terran female was almost _identical _to an asari!

That was _crazy_, almost _impossible_ when you considered the genetics and evolution necessary for such a thing to occur!

Granted, their skin pigmentation was still a pale pinkish-orange, and they had _fur_ on their heads, but the bone structure and other physical similarities were simply astonishing!

Celda couldn't help but smile broadly at this, as the female continued to scowl.

"Easy now, Nova," Raynor called back. "She doesn't mean us any harm, so relax."

The female didn't relax.

The muscular dark-skinned man beside her reached over with a bulky arm and embraced the woman, pulling her close and simply _hugging_ her. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out, even though they were quite close to Celda and the others.

After a moment, the dark-skinned man pulled away, kissed the woman's forehead, and stalked over to the group; his strange eyes alight with _something_, giving Celda the impression of a joker, despite the man's muscular bulk.

Though she could see that the man _did_ have irises to his eyes, they were milky-white, almost completely blended in with the rest of his eyes.

"Celda, this is my good friend Tosh," Raynor introduced. "He volunteered to meld with you, so that we can expand our…_friendly_ relations."

"A pleasure ta meet'chu, Celda T'Vanse," Tosh said, his word tinged with an unusual accent that seemed to match his rakish grin. "So, how dis 'hole _melding_ business be done?"

"It's quite simple, Tosh," Celda said, smiling back at him. "I'm going to spread my arms out – like this – and embrace you, just like you embraced Nova over there. Now, during the process, my eyes will turn black. That's nothing to be afraid of, just a simple biological effect. After that, there's no real way to _describe_ what a meld does: you just have to experience it."

"I got a question," Raynor said. "If you meld with Tosh here, then are you gonna end up with an accent like his? I don't think it'd be a good idea to have every asari in the galaxy talking like that – no offense Tosh."

"None taken, brudda," Tosh rumbled, chuckling.

"No, the accent won't be transferred," Celda answered, chuckling as well at the mental image. "The transfer of knowledge is a little more complicated than that."

"Alri'ght, den," Tosh said with another smirk. "Let's get to da _meldin'_."

Celda nodded, and approached him, her arms spread apart and her body starting to race as the meld took root.

"Embrace eternity," she said, wrapping her arms around his broad torso, touching _him_ through his bodysuit and feeling_his mind_.

Xxxx

The world faded away, and for a brief, yet infinite moment, Celda floated in an indiscernible sea of thoughts.

It was as if she was swimming amongst wave composed of half-remembered memories and wayward emotions, touching every _fiber_ of Tosh's being at once, but without _knowing_ them, without_ understanding_ them.

This was the first step; the begging of merging the two separate minds into one large space and fully share one's very_being_ with a partner.

It wasn't _really_ a sea of memories, of course, but that was how _she_ liked to visualize it.

_Dat be an interesting way 'a lookin' at it, Celda T'Vanse.  
_  
Celda acknowledged the amused words of Tosh, sending a detached bundle of emotional happiness towards him rather than respond in words.

_Here_, she didn't have to use words. She could communicate simply through shared emotions and feelings, transmitted instantly to her partner without any possible room for misinterpretation.

To _understand_ a memory, all she had to do was submerge herself into the Sea of Tosh and open her eyes, albeit metaphorically.

_Understanding_ something was as simple as opening the core of your mind to that _something_ and pulling it deep into yourself, to comprehend it fully.

But without the willing consent of the partner, each memory would be a confusing jumble of data, be it visual, audio, or any of the other senses.

To _understand_ something, you had to put the pieces together, which meant that you either had to be familiar with that particular species, or you had to share that person's own mind.

By sharing the _core_ of their mind, you could unlock a memory much like how a security code unlocked a vault, or a cipher to a code, allowing you to understand that memory fully and completely.

Of course, if you didn't fully trust whoever you were melding with, it was still possible to understand a memory with enough time, or, if the situation was desperate enough, by shattering your partner's mind.

Celda didn't share _that_ piece of info with Tosh.

That particular information was not well known amongst the asari populace, and had only come to her because of her friendship with the elusive Spectre Tela Vasir.

…But the Sea of Knowledge was _different_, this time.

It wasn't a gentle swell of emotions and memories, but a turbulent ocean.

Each new memory that she touched left a bizarre tingling sensation, like some kind of electric shock.

She'd never felt anything like it, despite the many years of her life as a Matron.

She shared this with Tosh, but he did not respond.

Frantic, she searched for his presence, but it had vanished.

_Vanished!_

That was _impossible! _You couldn't just _disappear_ from your own _mind_, but yet she was unable to feel his mind anywhere in the jumbled vortex of memories.

She had only had time to access the surface layer of thoughts, nowhere _near _enough time to fully comprehend his memories, but _she_ _had to leave now_.

_She had to leave now_.

Celda tried to understand this thought, because it hadn't come from her own mind, and it hadn't come from the sea, but_she had to leave now._

_Shehadtoleavenow._

Desperate, Celda tore herself away from Tosh's mind, pulling every part of _her essence_ back to the safety of her own body.

The electrical**_shock_** of Tosh's memories lingered, and she felt agitated, like her heart was racing, like a thousand Maidens were jumping on her nervous system, like – like – _likelikelike_ –

_Shehadtoleavenow_

_Leaveleaveleaveleaveleaverunawayandfightanotherday andrunandrunandrunand –_

**_AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaa_**

* * *

Celda ripped herself away from Tosh, stumbling backwards across the dark metal deck as her mind_racedandtoreandjumpedandbouncedand__**whatthehellwashappening**_

Unable to cope with the stress, Celda's eyes rolled up into her head, and her last sight was of the ceiling, high above her.

* * *

Descending to the deck gracefully, the elegant streamlined Asari shuttle looked _wrong_ to Nova's eyes.

The shuttle was a delicate thing, and it reminded her far too much of the expensive transportation that her father preferred.

Nova noted mechanically that such a fragile vehicle was unsuitable for warfare, unlike a Terran dropship, which was durable enough to be used for ramming strikes, if the situation called for it.

The propulsion units were mounted on a swivel mount, and didn't appear to be heavily armored. One shot from her C-20 canister rifle should be enough to destroy them.

That meant two quick shots to cripple the shuttle, a deed that would take less than a second.

The Asari shuttle, Nova concluded, was simply impractical.

Nova watched, invisible, as the Asari diplomat stepped lithely out of the shuttle, clad in a spotless white gown that was far too _clean_.

The gown was form fitting, leaving nothing to the imagination. Unless the diplomat was a psionic powerful enough to hide her abilities perfectly, she was defenseless.

A single shot from Raynor's holstered revolver could kill her, leaving the security escort to handle the three guards lurking in the shuttle.

The image the Asari presented was one of distraction; the shuttle's appearance seemed to be intended to present a superior figure, while the diplomat's gown flaunted her curves and sex appeal.

If this turned into a fight, Nova had no doubts that Raynor's Marine escort could deal with the firefight, allowing her to capture the shuttle intact.

After that, their scientists could study Asari technology to find a weakness, while the fleet prepared for the second attack fleet.

Victory wouldn't be certain, but Nova knew that Tosh still had his cutter docked in Bay Eight, which would get them to safety, and that was all that she cared about.

If the situation turned hostile, that is.

There was always a chance that negotiations could finish peacefully, but Nova hadn't survived the fall of the Confederacy and the Dominion by betting on chances.

Raynor stepped forward with Horner to talk to the diplomat, while Nova stayed put behind the Marines, leaning on Tosh's muscled form.

She clutched her C-20 closely throughout the talks, paying more attention to the diplomat's curious mind than to the words exchanged.

Without a deeper understanding of Asari mental functions, she wasn't capable of comprehending what the diplomat was thinking, but by observing facial emotions and linking them to the 'feel' of the diplomat's mind, Nova _was_ able to 'read' the diplomat's emotions.

Soon after the arrival of the Protoss, Raynor called Tosh forward.

Nova slid her arm away from Tosh's broad shoulders, intent on staying cloaked as Tosh moved forward, decloaking behind the nearest Marine.

Tosh's hand shot back, grabbing her off-hand and making her blink in surprise. The burly Spectre grinned, nudging Nova's mind as he tugged her forward.

Frowning, Nova decloaked as well, slinging her C-20 onto her back as Tosh stalked forward, grinning wildly as the diplomat shifted her gaze towards them.

Specifically, the diplomat shifted her gaze towards _Nova_.

Nova's scowl deepened as the diplomat's mind burst into energy, flipping through multiple emotions before settling on_lust_.

"Easy now, Nova," Raynor called out, his mind tinged with mixed amusement and concern at her behavior.

Tosh chuckled, sensing Nova's displeasure at that particular information. He pressed his amusement onto Nova, soothing her ire as he moved forward.

When even that proved unable to calm Nova, he reached over and hugged her, his huge arms tenderly enclosing her slim form.

Warmth pressed around her, and she relaxed, embracing Tosh with her mind and body as she slowly let go of her anger.

Tosh says something, but the words don't matter, so she doesn't listen to the

Then the diplomat's mind transferred its focus to Tosh, and the amount of emotional lust increased.

Nova glared at the diplomat, her fingers itching for the comforting grip of her rifle.

The diplomat didn't notice, busy as she was with Tosh.

As the two joined hands, Tosh's presence in Nova's mind suddenly vanished, retreating back into his own mind as the diplomat began to shake, muscles convulsing.

Raynor stepped back, saying something in a worried tone of voice, but Nova doesn't catch the words.

Tosh is twitching, his muscles jerking with tension, so Nova charges forward, desperate to keep him from harm.

Howling, the diplomat backed away from Tosh, her hands flying up to cradle her head as she stumbled backwards, collapsing to the deck in a dead faint a moment later.

Briefly, Nova experienced a strange feeling, which she characterized as a warm yet welcome feeling. Hazy memories of privileged childhood supplied the name of this emotion: satisfaction.

It had been a long time since she'd felt this much emotion for anything other than Tosh or killing. Maybe this diplomat could assist her recovery?

Her gaze snapped towards Tosh, as the black-clad Spectre began to mirror the diplomat's actions, his legs giving out and dropping him towards the ground.

Instinctively, Nova _reached_ towards him, cushioning his fall psionically. She swaddled him in her will, carefully lowering him to the ground as she rushed closer.

Faintly, she hears Raynor bark out orders, calling for a medical team, his voice tinged with the slightest hint of panic as he dashes towards the collapsed form of the diplomat.

Musing, Nova noted that it had been quite some time since she had heard Raynor panic. Of course, she supposed that the thought of another hostile first-contact might enough to crack his composure.

She quickly kneeling down by Tosh, cradling his head as she checks for injury, despairingly aware of Tosh's complete lack of outward mental presence.

Hastily, she checks his mind, and she's relieved to discover that his mental shields are still up. His mind is still intact, and she allows herself a smile.

Stomping in, the four Marines on security detail charge closer, moving to position themselves between Raynor and the shuttle.

"Get back!" Raynor snapped from alongside the motionless diplomat, gruffly barking at the Marines. "We don't want to provoke 'em, so stay back!"

"Sir, you're in danger," the lead Marine protested.

"I don't care, son, now get back!"

Nova ignored the exchanged, her mind detaching from her body as she inspects Tosh.

Though his shields are still as strong as ever, Nova can sense something churning inside his mind.

Slowly, carefully, she lays a hand along his head, breathing deeply in concentration as she focuses her power.

Every ghost had shields. They were a necessary part of life when every nearby ghost could read your mind, if they chose.

While most non-psionic Terrans made due without the guarantee, it was taken as a sign of weakness if a psionic couldn't protect their own mind, and Tosh was no exception to this rule.

Nova slowly traced her finger along Tosh's face as she carefully inspected his mind.

_Something _was wrong, she could see, but with his shields still up, Nova couldn't help Tosh with whatever the asari diplomat had done to him.

She _could_ break his shields. She had enough power to shatter them, particularly since Tosh was unconscious, but that ran the risk of shattering his mind, and Nova didn't _dare_ do that.

Instead, she _poked_ him with a single 'ping' of concentrated psionic energy.

Almost immediately, Tosh's shields fell.

A _tsunami_ of raw emotion came roaring out of his mind, forcing Nova backwards as she hurried to protect herself. A thousand screaming thoughts, broadcasted over a psionic loudspeaker, bombarding all nearby psionic individuals with the force of a bomb.

A single _poke_ didn't have _nearly_ enough power to force down Tosh's shields, but somehow it _had_, and the full force of the churning vortex inside Tosh's mind spilled out across the bay.

Memories, emotions, _raw_ feelings, all swirling around invisibly as the mental storm of power howled out of Tosh's mind.

One of the Marines flinched, neosteel-clad arms jerking with a shriek of clashing metal, while Raynor winced, clutching his head.

Nova retreated behind her shields, barricading them as the torrent of broadcast thoughts slowly died down, gradually changing from a raging psionic tempest into a calm pool of hazy memories.

"Nova? Nova, are you okay?"

She shook her head, blinking rapidly as she turned towards the noise, her shields battered and her will exhausted.

"Hey, Nova, talk to me now," Jim Raynor called, his tone concerned. "Y'all right over there darlin'?"

"I'm fine," Nova replied wearily, her professionalism slipping for a moment.

"What's wrong with Tosh?" Raynor asked, as he gently rolled the diplomat over onto her back.

"Possible psionic attack. I'm not sure if it was successful." Nova explained, her voice tense as she glanced back down at her lover.

"Possible?" Raynor repeated, puzzled. "Ain't something like that pretty obvious?"

"She's unconscious." Nova stated emotionlessly, sliding back into her professional persona. "Whatever she did, it released pent up emotions, contained memories, that kind of thing. If she had access to that much of the mind, it should have been very easy to kill a person – but she didn't kill Tosh."

"Maybe it wasn't an attack," Raynor murmured, glancing over at the bay doors. "And where the hell is that medical team?

"I…" Nova said, before hesitating. "I've never heard of something like this. Not in my area of expertise."

"Artanis, have you ever heard of anything like this?" Raynor questioned, getting back up to his feet as he addressed the Protoss. "Artanis?"

The Protoss didn't respond.

Nova looked up, her eyes seeking out the tall Protoss – only to find him sitting on the deck, nonresponsive.

"Artanis, say something man." Raynor requested, his brow furrowed in worry. "_Artanis!_"

But the Protoss didn't respond.

Looking closer, Nova noticed that the Protoss was still moving slightly, his elongated head waving back and forth ever so slightly.

Of more concern to the veteran Ghost was the Protoss's eyes: unlike normal, Artanis's fiery eyes seemed to be dull, muted, and were flickering like a candle.

Raynor shouted again, but Artanis didn't stir from his stupor.

Nobody moved any closer to the Protoss, all too aware of the psionic blades mounted on his forearms. Inactive or not, nobody wanted to get closer to something that could bisect you with a single cut.

"Make way, medic coming through!" cried a man's voice loudly, diverting their attention.

Two medics, clad in their signature white armor, came racing around the corner of the bay's hallway doors, quickly dashing over to the two prone forms.

One of them, a woman, came right over towards Tosh, but Nova cut her off, rising to her feet angrily.

"He's got a psionic overload, but no physical damage." Nova informed the medic firmly. "Leave him **_alone_**."

Wisely, the medic shut up and moved away.

The other medic, a man, had already pulled out a scanner-wand and was sweeping it over the diplomat's body.

"Hate to tell you this, Commander, but without a good idea of her species' normal baseline, I can't tell you what's wrong with her," the medic apologized. "Still, it doesn't hurt to-"

"Contact!" Nova called out, pulling out her C-20 and spinning to face the shuttle as she sensed one of the three lurking minds inside came closer.

"Hold your fire!" Raynor shouted, just as the black-clad figure of another asari walked down the boarding ramp, empty hands raised high in the air.

"I'm unarmed!" the asari called out loudly. "I'm unarmed, prefer don't shoot!"

"Lower your weapons, Marines." Raynor ordered, striding over to this new asari, Nova following behind.

"-the hell was that?" Raynor demanded, his civility gone. "Is that _normal_ for your people, knocking somebody unconscious?"

"No, no!" the asari denied quickly. "The meld doesn't do that – nothing like that is supposed to be possible!"

Nova narrowed her eyes, as a brief burst of guiltiness raced through the asari's mind. She was guilty about _something_, but the majority of her statement was truthful – at least, if Nova was reading her right.

She stopped listening, ignoring her ears and focusing on her psionic senses as she took a closer look at this newcomer.

As before, most of the black-clad asari's facial expressions matched their human equivalents; embarrassment at the situation matched tinge of pinkish color in the cheeks, while the mental pattern matched the one Nova had read on the diplomat.

Delving deeper into the mental perceptions, Nova couldn't help but absorb some of the feelings and emotions that Tosh had broadcast earlier, and her mood turned grim.

Paranoia, guilt, fear, along with a host of other emotions and feelings that were either naturally or chemically induced – a wide range of emotions that reminded her strongly of the Ghost Academy.

Before Nova could explore Tosh's banished inner demons further, the medic kneeling by the diplomat set down his scanner with a _clatter_, reaching towards her with a gauntleted hand.

The black-clad asari's face tightened, and Nova couldn't help but detect a spike of raw _aggression_.

The asari tensed, reaching out with a hand, gesturing in a manner _very similar_ to a psionic attack.

Instantly, Nova responded, channeling all of her power at the asari. In a heartbeat, she bound the asari with her will, locking her joints in place.

Nova _gestured_, and the asari lifted off the ground, completely encased by Nova's impressive psionic capability and utterly unable to move.

Impalers _clacked_ as the Marine security detail raised their rifles, covering the shuttle's boarding ramp and the psionically-bound asari with overlapping fields of fire.

The asari's eyes widened in shock as Nova held up there, four feet off the floor, but no matter how hard she struggled, she couldn't budge a single muscle.

"_Nova!"_ Raynor shouted. "That's _enough! Put her down!"_

"Her mind was turning aggressive, Commander," Nova reported coldly, eyes fixated on the immobile and suspended asari. "I prevented a hostile act."

"Medic, get away from Ambassador T'Vanse!" Matt Horner barked, his logical mind understanding the problem quickly. "Back away, now!"

"Nova, _put her down__**.**_" Raynor ordered furiously, his tone firm. "Stand **_down_**, _Nova!_"

Slowly, Nova lowered the asari down to the deck, her expression hard.

"She was a _threat_, Commander." Nova argued, keeping her gaze and her focus pinned on the black-clad asari, who stared, dumb-struck, right back at her.

"Her superior officer just got knocked out, _of course_ she's aggressive!" Raynor snapped, drawing in a deep breath angrily, as he tried to regain his composure. "You'd do the same thing for Tosh, Nova."

Internally, Nova disagreed.

Tosh was _Tosh_, one and only, irreplaceable. He was the only one who she cared about, the only one who could get her to react with emotion until now.

"I'm sorry, miss." Raynor apologized, bowing his head to the black-clad asari. "But I'm gonna have to ask you to keep from pointing any fingers right now."

Suddenly, there was a groan.

Nova spun around, eyes going wide as Tosh sluggishly raised an arm, while the diplomat's eyes began to flutter open.

Without a sound, she sprinted over to him, dropping her rifle in her haste.

Her arms wrapped around his head, and shewas _there_, with _him_, as it _should be_.

"Take it easy, Ms. T'Vanse," Matt Horner aided, kneeling down next to her as she stirred. "You've only been unconscious for a few minutes."

"Marines, back up, give her some breathing room." Raynor called, walking swiftly over to where the diplomat lay. "Ma'am, are you alright?"

Nova hugged Tosh, embracing him warmly and rejoicing internally as her mind tentatively touched his.

Tosh leaned his head back and let out a long sigh, as if relieving himself of a burden. Softly, he placed a hand on Nova's cheek.

"Lo dere, girl. How you doin'?" Tosh asked quietly, his smiling face peaceful.

Nova smiled, and before she could reply, Tosh had reached up and pulled her down, kissing her deeply.

The vast majority of her mind promptly shut down, but a small portion of her well-trained observation noted how the diplomat's cheeks were tinged dark purple and flustered, and how the diplomat was taking short, quick breaths.

Furthermore, it postulated that –

_Quiet!_ the rest of Nova's mind ordered, bringing her attention back to Tosh.

Slowly, gently, she returned the kiss, delighting in the simple affection as their minds danced around each other.

Faintly, she heard Raynor ask something.

"Celda, why did the psionic meld knock you both unconscious?"

"What... do you mean... psionic?" the diplomat replied, confused.

* * *

With a groan, the triple-layered blast door folded back, revealing a solitary turian in ill-fitting clothes.

"Hello, General Kuril," Raynor said warmly, stepping into the bare cell, featureless save for the two-way mirror on one wall.

"Greeting, Jim Raynor," Kuril replied, nodding his head to the Terran. "Unless you have a translator, I'm afraid that I can't help you."

Raynor chuckled, sliding a small packet across the plain metal table as he took his seat.

"What's this?" Kuril murmured. "Something for me?"

"Open it and find out," Raynor answered with a smile, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

Kuril shook his head, clearly perplexed and confused.

"Oh - _right_," Raynor muttered, berating himself internally.

"Kuril?"

Raynor waved, dragging Kuril's attention back to him, and then he gestured to his ear, turning his head partially to expose the earbud inside.

Kuril blinked, then his eyes widened as he understood.

"You have a translator?" he asked, observing Raynor warily.

Raynor simply nodded, not willing to make the same mistake twice.

"And these are more translators?" Kuril asked, pointing a talon at the small plastic packet before him, as Raynor nodded once more.

It only took a moment for Kuril to shred the thin material of the packet and insert the translator in its proper place.

"Can you understand me?"

"Good to finally talk to you, Jim Raynor." Kuril acknowledged, meeting Raynor's inquisitive gaze.

"Likewise, General Kuril." Raynor replied.

"These are nice translators… may I ask where you got them?" Kuril inquired, his tone professional as he adjusted his ill-fitting clothes with a grasp of his talons.

"They were provided by your good friends the Asari, under the command of one Celda T'Vanse." Raynor informed. "Your peoples must be pretty good friends, if the Asari are willing to back you up after this 'diplomatic incident'."

"I'm sure that Matriarch T'Vanse didn't use those exact words, now did she?" Kuril parried, as he tapped his talons on the table with a _click-clatter_, his eyes never leaving Raynor's.

"Of course not, but that's what she meant. She did say something about 'sanctions' for your government." Raynor conceded, as his face tightened. "A hundred and fifty _thousand_ of my people dead, and all she can promise is _sanction_s. You're a soldier like me, Kuril, so tell me honestly, are all the Asari so bureaucratic?"

Kuril chuckled, the alien sound peculiar to Raynor's ears.

"Oh, not all are like that. She's a diplomat, or at least I'm _assuming_ she's a diplomat, and you must know that diplomats aren't allowed to say anything solid without the approval of a superior." Kuril responded, as Raynor scowled.

Great, Raynor thought to himself: more _bureaucrats_.

Like he hadn't had enough of bean counters with the Confederacy, or with the hide-bound traditionalists of the Protoss Conclave.

Now _people, _he could deal with.

It was easy to make friends if you tried, but in his experience, it was a lot harder to make friends with a system.

"You may not believe me, Raynor, but I _do_ regret the deaths of your people. Unfortunately, activating a Primary Mass Relay is illegal, and we _must_ follow the law." Kuril explained frankly.

At this, Raynor began to glare at Kuril, clenching his hands tightly as he fought to keep his anger back.

"A _hundred and fifty_ _thousand people_ are _dead_, and all you can say is 'don't break the _law_?'" Raynor snarled, his rage starting to rise at the turian's blunt nature.

"That law is in place for a _reason,_ Raynor!" Kuril barked back. "The last time someone activated a Primary Mass Relay, it engulfed the _entire galaxy_ in a war that killed five hundred _billion _people. No one in the fleet _liked_ attacking your men, but they_ knew _that what they were doing was the right thing."

"Did your men even _attempt_ to contact my ships first, or did you just open fire immediately?" Raynor shot back, a half-forgotten memory of Chau Sara burning vivid in his mind.

"I don't know - I wasn't with the patrol fleet when it found your ships. And neither were you." Kuril pointed out. "For all we know, the patrol fleet and your men talked peacefully for a while, and then someone insulted somebody else, and everyone opened fire."

"You didn't ask what happened?" Raynor demanded, his voice raising in volume as his hands tightened further.

"A good soldier doesn't ask questions; he does his duty for the Hierarchy." Kuril replied stiffly, straightening his back as if at attention.

"Well, then why're _you_ talkin' about duty?" Raynor said. "I _heard_ your orders: 'Give no surrender, 'cause they won't accept it.' Look where you're sitting... seems to me that by your own definition, you're a damn bad soldier!"

Kuril didn't reply. He slumped in his seat, talons curling into balls as the turian hung his head.

Raynor glared at the unresponsive turian, remembering the sight of Vittorio Esposito's corpse in that blasted ruin of a bar.

Eventually, Raynor sighed, hanging his own head. Slowly, he unclenched his hands, staring at the bright red indentations along his palms.

"…You're not the only bad soldier in this room."

"What?" Kuril mumbled, looking up.

"I said, you're not the only bad soldier in this room."

"What do mean by that?" Kuril asked quietly, gazing at Raynor's hunched over form with confusion.

The Terran didn't immediately respond, instead reaching a hand down to his hip, out of Kuril's sight, and pulling out a small flask made of dark, twisted metal.

He opened the flask with a twist, and took a generous swig of the whiskey.

Raynor winced as the alcohol burned at his throat, then he sighed once more and set the flask down on the table.

"You won't understand – not now anyway," Raynor murmured, his voice distant and his eyes gazing at some point off in the distance.

"So explain it to me," Kuril pressed softly. "I've got plenty of time in here."

"Well… it all goes back to two planets. I was livin' at the time on a dustball called Mar Sara – a typical fringe world full of barren wastelands, a decent ways away from the core planets of the Confederacy, which was the ruling government of most of the Koprulu Sector. I was the Marshal there on Mar Sara, keeping the peace." Raynor told Kuril slowly.

"A worthy rank." Kuril acknowledged, his voice admiring. "Being the commander of a legion is a honorable position."

"Marshall wasn't a military rank, Kuril." Raynor clarified. "It was a judicial one, like a Sheriff. I was just a cop with criminal record out patrolling the badlands."

"How did you become a police officer if you had a criminal record?" Kuril probed, his expression seeming slightly curious and confused – though Raynor wasn't sure he'd gotten the hang of Kuril's bizarre turian expressions just yet.

"When the previous Colonial Magistrate arrived, there was some problems with your basic unorganized crime, so he picked me to keep all the normal folk in line. My criminal record was one of the main reasons – it helped intimidate some of the rowdier customers we had out there."

"I… _think_ I understand." Kuril said slowly. "I'm sorry for the interruption, Raynor… it's just that, for a turian, someone with a criminal record is never to be trusted. Please, continue."

"Alright, then… the planet had a sister world, known as Chau Sara, and there was a… a weapon loose on it. A bioweapon had gotten free, and it was… consumin' Chau Sara. The Confederacy fought back, but… by the end, Chau Sara was burned from orbit."

"I'm so sorry…" Kuril muttered. "Destroying a garden world is a horrible crime by the laws of the Citadel."

Raynor laughed; a dry, humorless laugh that reminded Kuril of a desensitized veteran home from a campaign.

"Kuril… oh, General Kuril…" Raynor drawled quietly, before he took another long sip from his flask of whiskey. "Before this tale is over, you're gonna hear a lot worse."

What did it say about the Koprulu Sector, Raynor wondered as he fiddled with the cap of his flask, that the burning of Chau Sara was just a footnote compared to all the other horrors?

"The bioweapon wasn't destroyed, General. It spread out, and soon enough it had infected most of Mar Sara. I was working alongside the Magistrate of the time, trying to evac some colonists, and my ragtag colonial militia ended up burning a few Confederate buildings to the ground, just trying to stop the weapon." Raynor recalled, the _sights_ and _smells_of that horrible assault still fresh in his mind.

"The Confederates didn't like that. Even though we'd just saved a couple hundred people, they arrested me for destruction of 'official Confederate property'." Raynor continued, sighing.

"By about that point, I was starting to wonder… soon enough, a man by the name of Arcturus _Mengsk _got in touch with me.

"Mengsk was the leader of an anti-Confederate rebellion, and he told me that the Confederates had _deliberately_ unleashed the weapon on Chau Sara and Mar Sara… just to _see _what would happen."

Glancing over at Kuril, Raynor wasn't surprised to see the turian's horrified expression.

"Once I knew that… I couldn't take it. The Magistrate and I joined up with Mengsk, and we spent a year fighting the Confederates. We raided R&D facilities, liberated worlds, and saw the horror of war right from the front lines. Finally, we ended up in orbit over Tarsonis, the capital of the Confederacy."

Raynor paused, shuddering slightly.

"Take your time." Kuril advised, his tone sympathetic.

"Lookin' back… I should'a known what was happening as soon as we got past the orbital defenses. We'd disrupted Tarsonis's fleet enough that we could move in with a small force, but it had a massive garrison groundside. They had the numbers, the technology, and the defensive advantage – there was no way we could take that world.

"So Mengsk didn't."

"What do you mean?" Kuril questioned curiously, immersed in Raynor's tale.

"What do think he think did? He unleashed the goddamned bioweapon."

"A weapon that could take out an isolated backwater is one thing, but wouldn't the capital of a government had more protection against biological threats?" Kuril pointed out.

"The weapon consumed biomass – the more it consumed, the faster it spread. No containment could keep it isolated. No quarantine was effective. Tarsonis fell in a single day.

"I remember hearing that Tarsonis had fifty billion people on it when the weapon hit. Makes sense… cities covered the planet. I know that at least half a million got out through the major spaceports, but that's still a _damn_ small number."

"They _all_ died?" Kuril asked numbly, his face horrified.

"After Mengsk controlled the Sector's media, he released an estimate of two billion people dead during his attack." Raynor said, his voice emotionless and flat. "He didn't mention _how_ he attacked the planet, and anybody who talked about the weapon or the casualties just… _disappeared_.

"I guess Mengsk might have been right; two billion people died… but forty-eight billion suffered something… _worse_ than death." Raynor murmured, his gaze dropping down to the table. "I can't even imagine what kind of slaughter took place down on that planet… but the radio signals coming up from it were…"

Raynor trailed off, sipping silently from his flask again.

"When it was over, I demanded to know what Mengsk was doing. Do you know what he told me, General?"

"No."

"He told me that he was building an empire, and that he was goin' to 'rule this sector or see it burned to ashes'." Raynor quoted, his voice still quiet and emotionless. "After all I'd seen, I just couldn't take it any more. A good soldier would've followed his orders and shut up, but I took every man I trusted and I left. Hijacked the bastard's flagship on the way out, even."

"What happened to him? To Mengsk?"

"He crowned himself Emperor. The mad bastard was obsessed with power – he was just as bad as the Confederacy. He fought a few wars, lasted a few years, but in the end we took down his Dominion just like we'd taken down the Confederacy."

"That's… that's quite a story." Kuril muttered, leaning back wearily in his chair. "There're still a few holes in it, though. What kind of bioweapon could 'consume' a heavily populated world in a single day, in a time when ground troops wear sealable power armor?"

Raynor stiffened, shaking his head.

"That's another story, General, for another time."

"Fair enough."

"You see it yet, General? Sometimes a man has disobey an order and break a few laws to do the right thing. When you told your men to surrender, you saved their lives, and that _was_ the right thing to do, regardless of what bastards like Oraka think."

"What you think of me doesn't matter." Kuril muttered. "The Hierarchy is going to be furious if Oraka tells them that you killed all of my men. They'll want a war."

"I already told Celda that you and your men are alive." Raynor told him. "If anyone's going to be furious, it's _my_ people, and we don't want another war; not after all the fighting we've been through."

"If... if Matriarch T'Vanse is here, then the Council already knows about this whole... _mess_." Kuril said slowly, gaining confidence as he spoke. "Since I'm such an upstanding citizen of the Hierarchy, I can't say anything about how meeting directly with the Council would be the quickest way to prevent a war…"

Raynor's head snapped up, and he stared at Kuril, astonished as the turian continued speaking.

"…And, of course, I can't say anything about how the Turian Councilor Kolonus just _happens_ to be the one who promoted Oraka."

"Theoretically," Raynor prompted, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, "what would the importance of that little fact be?"

"Oh, you see," Kuril rambled idly, looking upwards and twirling his talons absentmindedly, "in turian society, if a military officer of sufficient rank messes up, then the blame is placed on whoever promoted him or recommended him for promotion, since he clearly proved that he wasn't yet ready for the responsibility."

"I think I see..." Raynor replied. "That might have proven useful had you told me."

"And of course, you would have no way of knowing that the leader of the Hierarchy, Primarch Fedorian, would be very quick to remove such a public stain on the Hierarchy's honor. It would be a massive scandal if word ever got out to the turian people, you know."

"I'm afraid I wouldn't." Raynor sad sadly, as Kuril began to grin.

"You know, in most military organizations, there's usually a few people who decide to... _supplement _the rations with a few choice beverages." Kuril mentioned casually, while Raynor quirked an eyebrow.

"While I can proudly can say that there are no such people in my division, it's theoretically possible for there to be an... unreported false bottom containing some of those beverages in several of the division's supply cases, the cases that were confiscated by your men. A usual turian victory tradition is that the officers have a formal toast with horosk, a... particularly _potent_ beverage."

"Oh, believe me, General Kuril," Raynor said warmly, "I understand completely. Soldiers will be soldiers, after all."

"The morale of my men must be rather low at this point in time..." Kuril mused sadly. "I'm sure that a... unexpected increase in the rations would be well received - might even make the men less likely to resist their captivity."

"It's too bad that such a thing doesn't exist." Raynor said, shaking his head.

"Yes, it is too bad, isn't it?" Kuril replied, similarly saddened.

Both of the men held those glum expressions for another moment, and then they started to chuckle.

* * *

**Codex - Psionics**

Psionics refers to the practice, study, or psychic ability of using the mind to induce paranormal phenomena. The only known psionic species are **Terrans **and **Protoss**, though the enigmatic Protoss are rarely seen in **Citadel** space.

The first recorded appearance of a psionic in Citadel space occurred in **2508**, when the **Turian Hierarchy **unsuccessfully attempted to annex the newly discovered Terran species on **Shanxi**. While the conflict was largely won by traditional military means, rumors of Terrans with 'strange abilities' circulated throughout Citadel space until **2509**, when the Terran known as **Gabriel Tosh** psionically levitated a park bench on the Citadel for reasons unknown.

Known psionic powers include **empathy**, **telepathy**, and **telekinesis**, as well as other less common abilities. Due to the public dissemination of this knowledge, many species distrust Terrans due to a belief that Terrans are constantly reading the minds of others; a rumor that is worsened by the fact that a psionic is indistinguishable from a normal Terran. This has created a rift between Terrans and members of other species, and many individuals have taken to guarding their minds through use of a mental technique known as** dissembling.**

Another unusual aspect of psionics is the interaction with the **Asari **ability to **meld**. Although normal Terrans are perfectly capable of melding with Asari in the traditional manner, the psionic ability of some Terrans is potentially dangerous to the Asari. If a psionic of sufficient power melds with an Asari, there can be permanent damage to the Asari's mind, and even a risk of **death**. However, psionics of that capability are rare, and the unusual interaction of psionic power is said to be _intensely_ **pleasurable **for both the Asari and the psionic, leading **young** Asari to pursue psionic Terrans with an almost singleminded zeal.

.

.

.

* * *

**A Terran's Concept of Surrender **(Char-Nobyl)

"Marshall,_ they're...they're doin' something!"_

"They're surrendering, private."

_"They're doing what?"_

"Surrendering. It means they're not going to shoot at us anymore as long as we don't shoot at them."

_"Oh, shit. Guys, you heard the Marshall! Get ready!"_

"I think you've misheard me, private."

_"But...but you said they weren't gonna shoot at us, and we weren't gonna shoot at them."_

"Yes. Yes I did."

_"So now the Zerg show up, right? We stopped shootin' at each other 'cause we gotta fight the Zerg together?"_

"No, they're...that's not happening. They're surrendering because they've lost."

_"Oh."_

"Are we clear on that point, private?"

_"So when they was shootin' at us from space...it weren't to kill the Zerg or nothin'?"_

"No, private. It wasn't."

"What's the Marshall sayin'?"

"That, uh, the Zerg ain't comin'."

"What? But the aliens stopped shootin' at us."

"Yeah, but the Marshall says it ain't 'cos they need our help to fight the Zerg."

"Really?"

"They just don't want to die fightin' us, is all."

"Imagine that. We win, an' the Zerg ain't showin' up to shit all over it."

"Looks like."

"Crazy goddamn aliens. Surrenderin' when there ain't even Zerg that need fightin'."

"Go figure."


	4. Chapter 4

Impatiently, and with a soft _thump_, Jim Raynor lightly punched to the dull red stud embedded in the wall.

Waiting, Raynor watched as the bulkhead split down the middle, the sections smoothly sliding apart as Raynor strode through the opening.

"Ah, sir!" blurted out a fresh-faced man in a labcoat. "You would not _believe_ what I found while inspecting-"

"Now hold on, Stetmann," Raynor replied, holding up a hand to forestall the scientist's inevitable lecture. "I'd love to hear about what you've discovered in a minute, but right now I need to talk with Artanis. Just… give a minute, okay?"

The scientist grimaced, before nodding resignedly.

"Alright, sir. He's still over by the Protoss crystal – hasn't moved since the medics put him there."

"Tell me again, why is that thing still onboard? I thought you said you couldn't learn anything more it."

Vaguely, Raynor also remembered a Zerg specimen that had been in the containment pod next to the Protoss sample. At least Stetmann had had the sense to space that thing before it tried to infest the ship.

"Truthfully, sir, while _I_ might not be able to learn anything from the crystal, that doesn't mean that others can't," Stetmann responded, nodding excitedly. "I had to leave the Tyrador labs before I could learn everything, and it's possible that some of the Dominion refugees we brought with us know more than I do – the scientists among them, at least."

Raynor nodded once with a slight smile, as he raised his hand to pause Stetmann.

"Okay, Stetmann, you convinced me." Raynor said.

"Please sir, just let me – wait, you're okay with it?" Stetmann replied, visibly relaxing as he let out a tense breath. "Thanks, Commander. I'll give you some privacy.

Exiting quickly, the young scientist kept muttering under his breath about 'energy matrices', while Raynor gently shook his head, amused.

Stepping forward, Raynor turned his eyes back to the extra-large containment tank that Artanis was sitting before, cross-legged. The Protoss had been almost comatose when the medics finally got to him, and had barely managed to whisper his instructions to take him to the crystal in Lab 01.

Pausing, he looked closely at Artanis, but the Protoss was motionless, and Raynor had no idea if he was back to normal or not.

"Artanis?" Raynor called out softly, sensibly refraining from touching the troubled Protoss. "Are you alright man? C'mon, talk to me buddy."

"Greetings again, friend Raynor," Artanis rumbled, his 'voice' weak. "I am indeed fine – though Nova Terra's actions were unexpected, it appears that they were not dangerous."

"Everythin' I saw in pointed more towards Celda's actions, not Nova's." Raynor replied, confused. "What'd Nova do that messed you up so much?"

"Psionics have been studied by my culture for many millennia, Raynor, and yet I have no understanding of what took place when Celda T'Vanse and Gabriel Tosh melded. I am unsure if the Asari can hide their powers, but it was only after Nova used her own powers that I was incapacitated." Artanis mused.

"Little bit after you were knocked out, we managed to wake Celda up," Raynor informed the Protoss, crossing his arms as he leaned against the empty containment pod. "She didn't seem to know _anything_ about psionics, so you might be right. What's more, she said somethin' about 'merging nervous systems' or something like that – as far as she knew, the process had nothing to do with the mind."

"Each psionic species develops along their own path," Artanis said. "While Terran psionics can read the thoughts of others, they lack the ability to communicate that the Khala gives the Protoss. It is possible that their gift merely developed along a different path."

"Artanis, I'm convinced by this point that the Asari don't have any psionic ability." Raynor remarked calmly. "Both Tosh _and_ Nova agreed: they didn't sense a single shred of power from the Asari. Now, I _know_ that it's hard to accept any alternate possibility, but we've got to think about this whole thing logically. I think Celda's telling the truth."

Slowly, the Protoss traced a slender finger across the face of the containment tank. When Artanis spoke again, it was hesitant, as if concerned.

"Even if she is, friend Raynor, do you want to trust her?"

"We don't have a choice, Artanis. Either we play ball with this 'Council', or we fight another war – and none of my people want that."

"Indeed." Artanis replied, nodding his long head.

"Kuril's come around since I got a chance to talk to 'im, though, and he seemed to think that the best way to prevent a war would be to go straight to the Council, cut out the middleman."

"Can you trust the General, friend Raynor? He attacked your world without hesitation; it would be unwise to think that he has 'turned over a new leaf', as you Terrans say."

"You've got a good point, but either way this works out. The way I see it, either we negotiate a truce and get some reparations, or we take out their leadership in a single stroke. With your carriers fightin' alongside, we'll have the advantage – 'course, that depends if cutting the head off this snake works as well as it did on Mengsk. They might not collapse if their leader gets killed."

"Unfortunately, I cannot assist you with this task, Raynor." Artanis said, his tone slightly sorrowful. "My presence is required back on Shakuras."

Raynor stared at his friend, taken aback.

"If you could get away to help us out, then why can't ya stay to help wrap this whole affair up?" Raynor questioned, puzzled. "The situation on Shakuras isn't _that_ bad, is it?"

"The Protoss are not like the Terrans, friend Raynor. The Khala is the guiding light of our civilization, the bond holding the tribes of Aiur together. Without it, our civilization is failing."

"Whoa, there – what do you mean the Khala is _failing_?" Raynor demanded, his eyes widening. "And why is this the first time I'm hearin' about it?"

Artanis sighed, his skin vibrating as he did.

"The Khala is intact, but that will not hold. Tell me, Raynor, what do you _truly_ know about the Protoss – about the Khala?"

"Well… I had quite a few talks with Tassadar, back on Char," Raynor murmured, slowly sinking to the floor with his back pressed against the containment tube. "That takes me back… must be seven years now. You remember; your boys found us stuck there, surrounded by Zerg."

"Indeed…" Artanis nodded. "Judicator Aldaris was not pleased by your presence, if I recall correctly."

Raynor chuckled, as he brought out his flask and took a small drink.

"No, he wasn't. What you might not know is that we'd been stuck on that rock for about a month when you showed up. Me 'n my boys had been hiding on Char for a while, and when… Kerrigan woke up, the _Hyperion_ had to leave. Tassadar was in the same boat, and after some tracking, we managed to link up – just as a Zerg wave found his Templars."

The Terrans eyes grew wistful as he gazed up at the ceiling, remembering that hellish planet.

"You should have seen him, Artanis. I'd had enough experience with the Protoss to know that the Templars were fragile, the kind of people who didn't like fightin' up close. But when I first saw him, he was blasting a Hydralisk with this blazing light – burned it to a damn crisp. I told the Raiders not to shoot at the Protoss, 'cause I knew we couldn't hold up against both them_ and_ the Zerg.

"After we'd finished off the last of the Zerg, we just stood there, starin' at each other across a field of dead Zerg. I remember seeing Tassadar standing there, just watching us. Then, he walked right over to me without a word, and he just nodded, like there was nothing to say.

"We spent a month with his men, taking watches, sharing foxholes, and killin' Zerg… like they were just another group of Terrans. Every couple a' hours the Zerg'd attack, and we'd kill 'em all."

"I remember thinking that it was surprising that none of my boys had a problem with working alongside the Protoss, and vice versa, but after a while, I realized that everybody there _knew_ that we had to work together, or the Zerg would wipe us out. We simply didn't have the luxury of arguing with each other."

Artanis turned his head, tilting it on an angle as he regarded his old friend.

"The Dark Templar under Zeratul joined us sometimes, slipping in and out of our defensive lines like ghosts. Sometimes they'd point us at a supply cache that Duke's Alpha Squadron left behind, and we'd sent out a raiding party to restock our ammo and ordinance.

"We didn't have anything better to do, so we talked. Between the constant fighting and lack of anythin' recognizable as night, it was all we did. We ate what we could, slept when we had to, fought when the Zerg showed up, and talked in the mean time.

"Tassadar told me that the Khala was a communal bond, and that by meditating, he and his men were in constant communication, sharing their thoughts and memories. He also said that the reason the Dark Templar were disliked by most Protoss was because they couldn't join the bond, because they'd cut off their nerve tendrils."

"Correct, James Raynor." Artanis acknowledged. "Though removing our nerve tendrils does not fully remove our psionic abilities, it renders a Protoss incapable of communicating through the Khala. To lose that ability is not dissimilar to being mute – it diminishes a Khalai, to be unable to converse with his kin."

"So what does this have to do with you returning to Shakuras?" Raynor questioned. "I know that the Khalai don't get along well with the Dark Templar, but is it really that bad?"

"The Nerazim are but a small portion of the problem, sadly." Artanis revealed, his tone turning sorrowful again. "You see, friend Raynor, the Khala has one disadvantage: it cannot extend over the entirety of the Koprulu Sector.

"The communal bond of the Khala extends across a large area, as far as the edge of Protoss space, but any Khalai beyond that point cannot join the Khala while he meditates. He is beyond the reach of the Khala, and is alone."

"Huh…" Raynor mused, rubbing his chin. "I suppose that makes sense… otherwise Tassadar would'a known that Aldaris had come to arrest him before your fleet had left Aiur."

"Indeed. But that limitation would not be a problem to the Terrans – only to the Protoss."

"What'd you mean by that?"

"When your species developed, you lacked something that Protoss had always possessed: the ability to communicate psionically, and thus the ability to discern the truth.

"Psionics have shaped the Protoss in many ways, friend Raynor, and the largest of those ways concerns how the Khalai bond together. The Protoss have never had a stable government until Khas formed the Khala out of the Aeon of Strife.

"We existed as tribes, feuding amongst each other. Our psionics were weak, and the communal bonds only existed between members of the tribes. Khas used the khaydarin crystals to amplify our psionic abilities, much as I am using your crystal, and soon the communal bond of the Khala spread across the Protoss.

"No longer did we fight our neighbors, for we _were_ our neighbors. It was enlightenment, Raynor, and it saved us from the madness of the Aeon of Strife.

"But the primary source of the Khala was on Aiur, in a giant khaydarin crystal hidden deep under the ground, and with the Fall of Aiur, that crystal is lost to us. Although the Khalai are still capable of the Khala, we are no longer capable of uniting our worlds in its embrace.

"Slowly, my people are splitting, James Raynor. We cannot bond with our neighbors, and the distance between us grows. Tribes have begun to reemerge, and I fear that before long, the Khalai shall fight between themselves again."

Raynor let out a low breath, his hand pressing close against his forehead as he closed his eyes.

"You can't communicate with Shakuras… you're past the bond's reach right now, aren't you?" Raynor asked quietly.

"That is correct, friend Raynor."

"If they need you so badly, then why'd you come?" Raynor questioned, looking back at the sitting Protoss next to him. "Why risk your species going mad by leaving – all just for a group of refugees?"

"Because you are James Raynor." Artanis replied, looking directly at him.

His brows furrowed in confusion, Raynor gazed back at the Protoss, not understanding.

"When Aiur burned, our people were scattered. We had barely enough forces to attack the Overmind, but in Aiur's final hours, James Raynor and his men fought alongside us. Without you, friend Raynor, the Protoss would not be alive today."

Raynor didn't respond.

"Though I must return to Shakuras, the Protoss will not abandon you. My second in command, Executor Selendis, will join you in your negotiations, accompanied by her carrier, the _Antioch_."

"…I appreciate that, Artanis." Raynor answered slowly. "You've always been a good friend to my people. Anything you need, just ask, and we'll help you get it."

"You are generous, James Raynor," Artanis acknowledged. "Let it not be said that the Protoss were unkind to their friends – consider that pledge to be mutual."

Raynor smiled softly as he sluggishly climbed to his feet.

"Looks like our next step is pretty obvious," Raynor remarked, as the looming figure of Artanis stood up next to him, towering above him by at least two feet.

"I wish you well on your journey, friend Raynor," Artanis rumbled, all sign of weakness gone from his resonant voice. "When you meet with the Council of the Citadel, remember that the Protoss will always support you."

Then, Artanis bowed, lowering his head respectfully to the comparatively small Terran.

"Oh, you don't need to do that," Raynor chuckled, as the pair walked towards the bulkhead. "You know I'm not big on formalities."

"Indeed." Artanis boomed. "Let us pray that the Council is similarly informal; I remember well your reaction to those who cloak themselves in formality."

"Admit it, you hated Aldaris just as much as I did." Raynor chided as they left the lab.

"It is possible." Artanis conceded.

Raynor's chuckling laughter echoed down the dull neo-steel corridor as the two friends strode onwards.

* * *

Drifting gently through the void, the grey metal of the colossal structure loomed over the expanse of nothingness.

Ships flitted in between its long arms, landing at docks and disgorging their passengers.

Patrolling silently, six cruisers stood sentinel over the area, spaced equally around the Citadel, all watching, all waiting.

There was no warning sign, unlike warp-travel – one moment there was nothing, then the next, the _Hyperion_ emerged, drifting out of the Mass Relay.

It hung there for a moment, motionless and drifting, and then the engines fired, propelling the battlecruiser slowly forward.

"Distance from the Relay?" Matt Horner asked as he surveyed the tactical chart.

"Nine thousand kilometers, sir." Lieutenant Cade reported, as his fingers flew over the keyboard. "Sensors reporting six contacts-"

"I see them, Lieutenant," Jim Raynor replied softly, sitting up in his chair and glancing at the holo-chart. "Let's keep it cool now, no need to get worked up."

"Yes, sir," Cade responded, smiling slightly.

"Looks like six cruisers on course towards us," Matt murmured to Raynor as they inspected the holo-images of the turian cruisers. "That structure there must be the Citadel."

Raynor let out a low whistle as the holo-chart expanded to fit the structure, shrinking down the numerous ship icons to miniscule dots just to fit in the Citadel's sheer size.

"Forty-four kilometers, huh? That's mighty respectable," Raynor noted. "Looks kind of like the Relays, too."

"It was likely built by the same species," Matt acknowledged. "But I doubt the turians or the asari built it – the aesthetic is different, and the asari would've painted it white."

"Good call," Rory Swann agreed, rubbing his beard with his good hand as he glared at them. "But why don't we get out of the way first, so's the Protoss don't ram us when _they_ come out of the Relay, _eh_ flyboy?"

"Whoops." Raynor muttered, as Matt grimaced. "Cade, set course for the Citadel – take us in nice and slow."

"Aye aye, Marshall," Cade replied, as he laid in the course. "ETA… ten minutes. Is that acceptable, sir?"

"That'll do fine, Lieutenant." Matt answered professionally, nodding. "Keep a watch on the cruisers, but put the Citadel up on main screen, Lieutenant Bralik."

Swann stomped over to the holo-map, as the view from the forward camera sprang to life, revealing a more detailed, two-dimensional image of the long split cylinder that was the Citadel.

Five long arms stretched out across the pale purple light of the Serpent Nebula, connected to a thin ring at the 'base' of the structure.

"From what the diplomatic package said, the Citadel can close those arms down in only five minutes." Matt remarked. "It seemed a bit obvious, as far as warnings go. No mention of fleet strength or other military numbers, though."

"I can see a couple docking bays on those arms," Raynor said, tracing a finger along the image. "Fair chance that there's another couple dozen ships inside. Static defense, combined with a mobile fleet… should do the trick."

"Yeah, except there's a great big _hole_ at the back end," Swann pointed out. "The only realistic option I could see is some sort of sliding, extendable armor that covers it up – and there's no way their armor plating could be extendable without losing some protection."

"One look, and you already know how to beat them?" Raynor asked skeptically. "There's gotta be something more that we aren't seein'. These folks don't seem to be the type to ignore something that big."

"The Relays!" Matt realized, snapping his finger. "They must be relying on the speed of the Relay system to make sure that reinforcements can arrive quickly."

"Hmm… makes sense," Raynor admitted. "There's probably some kind of fleet base nearby, and with the Relays, they'd be able to get another fleet here in less than an hour."

"I'd say less than that, cowboy." Swann disagreed, as he brought up a star chart. "Look, here's Koprulu, right?"

"Right."

"And here's Shanxi – it took us, what, three months non-stop to get between the two?"

"I get it… given that it only took a few seconds to travel to here from Shanxi, you're assuming that _all_ Relay travel is that fast?" Matt questioned, as he zoomed the star chart out, until they could see the edges of the Milky Way.

"Sure, I'll admit that Shanxi and the Serpent Nebula aren't that far apart, but the Relays tech should only take a few seconds _regardless_ of the distance." Swann argued. "Part of the blue chick's contact package dealt with the Relays, and Cade transferred it down to me and Stetmann."

"Oh? What kind of details did it give you?" Raynor asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"None of the raw math – apparently they didn't think we could handle anything other than a basic explanation." Swann grumbled. "But the basic explanation cleared a few things up down in engineering."

"Obviously, it isn't warp travel." Matt noted. "Too little travel time, and none of the usual signs."

"Yup." Swann confirmed. "It's no warp travel – instead of cuttin' through space-time, it looks like the Relays use this 'mass effect' to reduce our mass, then shoot us off through FTL. We had to twist our way of thinkin' around a bit, but this means that a primary Mass Relay should be capable of sending us anywhere from a thousand to fifty thousand lightyears – almost _instantly_."

Raynor and Matt glanced at each other, each with wide eyes.

"So with this tech, we could go from one end of the galaxy to the other… _instantly_?" Raynor tested.

"If there's enough Relays set up, sure," Swann shrugged.

"That's…" Matt started to say, before trailing off.

"It's _way_ beyond us, that's for sure." Swann muttered. "But that's not the interestin' part."

Raynor glanced at Swann, checking to see if the bearded engineer was joking. Swann's face was grim and serious, so Raynor sighed.

"Alright, then, what's the interesting part?"

"I don't think the asari or the turians made the Relays," Swann stated, as he switched the main screen back to the Citadel. "Look, aside from the vastly different design philosophies, if the turians could manage to make a Relay, then they would'a crushed the fleet over Shanxi."

"Their main guns did seem to be slow," Matt admitted. "I don't know if we got a report back from that captured cruiser or not, but the slugs that they were firing were only travelling around three to four thousands kilometers per second."

"And if they could make FTL Relays, then why couldn't they up the firepower of their guns?" Raynor finished, nodding. "You could be firing rocks at us and still win, if the rocks were going half the speed of light.

"Exactly." Swann answered, crossing his mismatched organic and prosthetic arms. "No way they were holdin' back that kinda firepower. The only explanation is that they didn't have enough control over the tech – and since makin' a Relay would _require_ that much control, they _couldn't _of built 'em."

"Point." Matt conceded. "But I'd still rather not make any assumptions until we have more information. Lieutenant Cade, status of the six cruisers?"

"Still on course towards us, sir. Polite escort, maybe?"

"I'd say it's a not so polite 'don't fuck with us.'" Lieutenant Bralik contended from his seat at Operations station.

"Now, now, Lieutenants, let's keep it professional." Matt chided lightly, as his lips curled into an amused smirk. "Still, if they think that six cruisers is a match for the _Hyperion_, then I see no need to correct them."

"New contact, coming from the station!" Lieutenant Cade called out. "Looks pretty big, captain – I'd estimate around a kilometer in length!"

"Keep calm, Lieutenant," Matt replied easily. "Lieutenant Bralik, put the new contact on-screen, if you will."

The holo-screen blinked, then refocused, zooming in on a vessel emerging from the throat of the Citadel.

It was enormous – easily a kilometer and a half, with length and width to spare. Elegantly curved lines of blue metal decorated its hull, and thousands of twinkling lights gave an indication of just how _big_ it was.

"Looks like another dreadnought, Commander." Matt remarked, as Swann gaped openly at the image.

"Must be," Raynor nodded respectfully. "Pretty obvious it's not turian, though – the birds seem to like angles and lines. This one looks more like a cruise liner than a warship, so I'm gonna guess asari. What'd you think, Swann?"

Swann stared openly at the image for another moment, then shook his head.

"I want to meet whoever designed that thing," he murmured, still shaking his head. "So I can ask him _what the hell he was thinking_, makin' a ship like _that_."

"Swann, remember now that you thought the same thing when you first saw a void ray," Raynor cautioned. "Just 'cause something looks stupid doesn't mean it is."

"Yeah, cowboy, but the Protoss are space wizards – they can get away with crap like that. As far as we know, the asari still follow the same laws of physics as us. No sane reason why they'd increase target area _and_ stress factors. Sure, you don't _need_ a streamlined design, what with lack of gravity, but it's still a good _idea_. One good shot to any of those wings'd take off the entire thing, and you'd lose a lot of people."

"Still, the fact they brought her out means they're taking us seriously, at least," Matt noted.

"Captain, new contact," reported Cade. "The _Antioch_ just dropped out of FTL, and is coming up alongside us."

Raynor smirked.

Gleaming gold, the graceful Protoss warship accelerated effortlessly with pulses of blue light. Two and a half kilometers of shining metal, the Protoss supercarrier _Antioch_ was a sight to behold.

"Incoming communication from the _Antioch_, sir."

"Put her on."

The main screen blinked once more, and the slender blue face of Executor Selendis appeared before them.

"En Taro Tassadar, James Raynor," Selendis greeted, nodding respectfully.

"En Taro Tassadar, Selendis," Raynor returned with a wry smile. "Good to have you with us – let's hope this job goes better than the last one we shared."

"Indeed, James Raynor," Selendis replied, a slight lilt of amusement in her voice. "I pray to Adun that we can reach a settlement; but if not, the Protoss are prepared to fight by your side once more."

Lieutenant Cade abruptly turned in his seat, sending a silent wave to get Matt's attention. Quickly, Matt moved over to Cade's station, bending over to inspect the display.

"Like you said, Selendis, let's hope it doesn't come to that." Raynor said. "I think we've all had enough war for now. I'll see you on the Citadel."

Nodding once more, the Protoss Executor ended the signal.

Raynor sighed, running a gloved hand through his hair.

"Commander, you might want to take a look at this," Matt called over, as he tapped a button.

Once again, the main holo-chart flashed and changed, showing a chart of the local area.

"Heh." Swann grunted in amusement as he noted the change. "Looks like all that gilt and decoration _is_ good for something."

"All other vessels have cut power and are at a dead stop, Commander," Cade announced, as Matt and Raynor shared an amused glance.

"Well, it looks like the Protoss scared them a little." Raynor remarked. "Good; let's hope that makes 'em take us a little more seriously. Alright, Mr. Cade, take us in. Time to meet with this Council."

* * *

"Councilors, I present Marshall James Raynor and Gabriel Tosh, of the Terran race," the asari announced as she opened the door.

"Thank you, Tela," another asari said, standing up and stepping over to the door. "Greeting, James Raynor, I have heard much about you, though I haven't heard as much about your friend Gabriel. I am Councilor Tevos, of the Asari Republics. A pleasure to meet you."

Raynor smiled back at Tevos, subconsciously observing the ornate and expensive furniture that decorated the small room.

"The pleasures all mine, Councilor," Raynor returned warmly, nodding politely.

Past the asari, he could see two more individuals; one of which was a turian in a formal jacket and pants, and the other of which appeared to be a 'Salarian', based on what Celda T'Vanse's first contact package had taught him.

The room was well-lit, the furniture was light and colorful, and he could see a cabinet of drinks in the back corner full of bizarre and exotic colors.

In short, it was the complete opposite of his bar.

The asari who had guided them to the room nodded once to Tevos, then quietly backed away – too quietly to be a mere assistant. Add in the bulge by her waist, and Raynor figured her to be some form of bodyguard, possibly elite.

Raynor took all of this in within a second, simply glancing around the room before returning his gaze to the Asari Councilor, who was wearing the most _sincere_ fake smile he had ever seen. Assuming it _was_ a fake smile, that is.

"Please, have a seat," Tevos invited, gracefully returning to her own plush chair.

Tosh and Raynor shared a quick glance, then moved closer. Raynor looked around at all the plush and luxurious, while Tosh simply leaned back against the wall, the ghost of a smile on the corners of his face.

"May I introduce Councilor Quixos, of the Salarian Union, as well as Primarch Fedorian, of the Turian Hierarchy," Tevos continued smoothly, her hand gesturing smoothly to each in turn.

"An honor to greet a new species," Quixos said, his voice notably higher pitched and faster paced than a Terran's.

"Likewise," Fedorian added tersely, unable to keep his tone entirely cordial.

For a heartbeat, Raynor looked directly at Fedorian, who stared back in turn. The two held the gaze for a moment, then moved on.

Primarch, eh? That wasn't what he was expecting, but from the sounds of the pretentious title, Raynor was dealing with someone slightly higher up on the food chain that Councilor Kolonus.

"Nice to meet you folks," Raynor replied. "Like the lady said, I'm Marshall Jim Raynor of Shanxi, and I can be considered the spokesperson for the Terrans. My buddy here is Tosh, one of my advisors, and dear friend."

"I hope it doesn't bother you if I move right on to our business," Raynor stated as he plopped himself down on the most uncomfortable seat he could find. "While I'm all for peaceful negotiation, I'd rather do that while there isn't a threat of war hangin' over my people."

"Of course," Quixos answered. "Speaks well of your efficiency."

"I think I speak for the whole Council when I say that we wish only peace between our people," Tevos continued sincerely. "But that is mainly the Primarch's problem. We of the Council would never dream of interfering with the day to day running of the Hierarchy."

Fedorian coughed, before directing his gaze back to Raynor.

"While General Oraka's… _decisions_ as the commander of the Sixth Fleet were technically legal under Hierarchy and Citadel law, rest assured that they were _not_ approved of by Palaven Command," Fedorian started, speaking slowly and carefully. "As such, I'd like to offer my personal apology for the attack on your world, as well as an unconditional ceasefire."

"Well," Raynor responded. "That'd be a great start to repairing the damage. My people have had enough war in our lives. The hope for peace is always appreciated, but rarely seen nowadays."

"A'course, we'd also appreciate de return of any prisoners you might be possessin'," Tosh chimed in. "De lives of our people have top priority, afta' all."

"I would love to grant that request, but I'm afraid that without some form of reassurance or compensation, Palaven Command will be unwilling to simply hand over prisoners of war." Fedorian parried. "From what I hear, though, you also have a few prisoners. Perhaps an exchange could be arranged?"

Raynor's eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened for a moment before responding.

"I'd rather just see them all 'exchanged', Primarch," Raynor acknowledged. "We'll have a hard time trustin' each other if our only assurance of peace is a blade pressed against a prisoner's throat. Better to return all prisoners, and start fresh."

"A bold offer, Marshall," Fedorian noted. "But it's an offer than I am willing to agree with. Consider it done."

"That's mighty generous, considerin' I was going to discuss reparations next," Raynor mentions, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Of course, given how recently these events occurred, there's no way that we'd be able to _accurately_ gauge just how much damage your General Oraka caused."

"My people will be more hesitant with reparations, I'm afraid," Fedorian said, his plates shifting in some emotion that Raynor couldn't quite decipher. "While the loss of life was tragic, your research vessel was caught violating one of the Citadel's laws, and one of the most dangerous ones at that."

Quixos shifted in his seat, stretching an elongated finger up to his chin in musing, while Tosh crossed his arms.

"You'll have to forgive our scientists," Raynor fired back. "They'd only just discovered the Relay network, and they had no idea that the Citadel or it's laws existed."

"I'm afraid it isn't that simple, Marshall." Fedorian replied firmly. "Ignorance of the law not an excuse in this situation; had the Spirits been cruel, your scientists could have unleashed an threat to galactic civilization – our ships merely acted to prevent that possible threat."

"That saying only works for a few crimes, Primarch," Raynor shot back. "Killin' a man, for instance. Activating a defunct alien ruin is _not_ one of those situations."

"Ancient ruins are unknowable, and are better left alone – any species with a modicum of sense would understand that," Fedorian riposted, his tone growing angry.

"Your species did the same thing, Primarch." Raynor pointed out. "Unless I've missed my mark, your tech is based primarily off the Relays. Why do you get to criticize us for making the same 'mistake' that your species did?"'

"You have to forgive the Primarch, I'm afraid that he is still feeling the loss of his men," Tevos interrupted, barging her way into the heated argument.

"Yes," Fedorian chimed in, not getting Tevos's hint to back off. "I have to tell three thousand families that their sons won't be returning."

"An' I have to do the same with a _hundred_ and _fifty_ thousand." Raynor snapped back, locking gazes with the Primarch.

"We are here to discuss _peace_, not start another war." Tevos broke in again, glaring at Fedorian. "My understanding was that you agreed with this sentiment, Marshall Raynor."

"I do," Raynor confirmed, nodding as he pursed his lips, annoyed at his own lack of control. "But I don't like being lectured on things that my people had under control."

Keeping his mouth closed, Fedorian merely scowled at Raynor's words.

"You must understand, Marshall, we of the Citadel have a bad history with activating Mass Relays," Tevos explained softly, her smile turning sad. "A threat to the entire galaxy is not hyperbole; we have face that situation before."

"General Kuril mentioned something about a war that engulfed the galaxy, back when I asked him why he had attacked," Raynor acknowledged off-handedly. "He told me that the risk was too much – I disagree."

"Perhaps some context would help, Marshall?" Quixos suggested helpfully, gesturing with his open palm. "When a group of Salarian explorers activated a Mass Relay and passed through, they found the Rachni – a race of insectoid creatures that quickly replicated our usage of Mass Effect technology.

"They possessed abilities previously thought impossible – spitting acid, regenerative carapaces, telepathic abilities. Despite having the intelligence to independently develop spaceflight, we could not communicate with them. The situation decayed. War broke out, and it was seventy-five years before we regained the advantage.

Raynor started chuckling, while Tosh cocked his head quizzically as if studying something.

"What's so funny, Marshall?" Tevos inquired, eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion.

"We've already had our fair share of conflict with these 'Rachni', though we called 'em Zerg." Raynor explained, a light grin on his face. "Don't get me wrong, they were just as horrifying to us as to you, but we can handle the Zerg."

"Your species has encountered Rachni?" Quixos repeated, curious. "Must have been an off-shoot colony... An impressive achievement – defeating them while lacking your current technology must have been difficult."

Raynor's brow furrowed, and he glanced at Tosh, who looked slightly confused as he frowned.

"I dunno, brudda – I can't feel a t'ing off wit' what he be sayin'," Tosh told Raynor.

Turning back to the Council, Raynor frowned as he contemplated what to say.

"I'm sorry, but… I don't know what you mean, Councilor. We beat back the Zerg with the same tech we've got right now." Raynor informed the Councilor frankly, still frowning.

Councilor Quixos's expressions scrunched up in confusion, and even Tevos and Fedorian looked doubtful.

"_Impossible_ – two thousand years is sufficient for massive technological growth even at slow rate." Quixos muttered, half to himself and half to the group.

Pausing, Raynor held up his hands to halt the conversation.

"Hold on a minute, now… _two_ _thousand_ years?" Raynor repeated doubtfully. "I don't know where you got that impression from: We first encountered the Zerg nine years ago."

Tevos, Fedorian, and Quixos all paused, their expressions turning horrified as they tried to compose themselves.

"We were forced to wipe the Rachni out over two thousand years ago, Marshall." Tevos said as she pressed a hand against her head. "Perhaps it is simply the case that we are talking about two different species?"

"Two different species of insectoid monsters that devour planets?" Fedorian mentioned doubtfully. "I doubt that the universe is that cruel. More likely to be a surviving colony of the Rachni."

"Regardless, this can be cleared up easily," Tevos continues, as she waved her hand, summoning a strange orange device over her arm.

Tevos tapped quickly on the orange device, while Raynor took the chance to inspect this unusual machine. Clearly, it was a computer of some sort, but a holographic interface of that level was rare in the Koprulu Sector – and he doubted that any Terran had ever had the original thought to place the interface on one's wrist.

"Here, this is one of the forms that the Rachni took during our war with them," Tevos announced as she waved her hand.

Immediately, a three-dimensional image sprang to life above her wrist, depicting some kind of slim, wiry insectoid monster composed of overlapping plates of chitin.

Raynor leaned closer, while Tosh's eyes narrowed, both of the Terrans closely inspecting the holographic image.

"That doesn't look like any Zerg I've seen," Raynor mused. "How 'bout you, Tosh?"

"Same for me, brudda. I don't t'ink de Zerg have shown a form like dat." Tosh replied. "Looks a liddle too flimsy to be a zergling, an' too skinny to be a drone or anythin' bigger."

"The Zerg evolve, though." Raynor pointed out, while the Councilors leaned in, listening closely. "Maybe this is what they looked like two thousand years ago?"

"Councilor, are dere any more images of dese... Rachni?" Tosh questioned politely, while Tevos looked curiously at his milky-white eyes.

Wordlessly, Tevos pulled up more images, cycling through them as Raynor and Tosh continued to shake their heads, until they come to the last image.

"Now that looks more like it," Raynor says, leaning in closer to inspect the much larger image. "That one almost reminds me of a Zerg Queen, but the size is a bit too large."

"This is the image of a Rachni Queen, one of the breeding mothers of the Rachni," Tevos informed them.

"So your 'Zerg' were smaller on average?" Fedorian asked, curious about this possible new threat.

"By average amount, yeah, but that's 'cause of how many Zerglings there were." Raynor replied, as Fedorian's mandibles twisted into an expression similar to confusion. "Sure, Zerglings were only about three feet tall on average, but Hydralisks were usually more like seven to eight feet tall, and the Ultralisks were about the same size as that Rachni Queen, though they were thicker; not as skinny or thin as the Rachni."

Tevos looked slightly shocked, while Fedorian shuddered at the thought.

Quixos, on the other hand, looked interested. His hand was once more touching his chin, and his eyes were slightly off, focusing on something in the distance.

"Ultralisks were the leadership?" he inquired.

"_No_, no… they were the equivalent of a tank." Raynor recalled, shivering slightly as he remembered the image of an Ultralisk smashing its way through a line of Marines. "Big, thick, armored, and carryin' two pair of damn sharp blades."

"How many of these... Zerg were there?" Tevos asked slowly, as she wraps her mind around the idea of another species like the Rachni.

"No idea," Tosh chipped in. "De Zerg would fall upon worlds and devour dem whole."

"Surely there must be some exaggeration there," Fedorian replied, his professional pride wounded.

"Primarch, when the Zerg send in an attack wave, you literally could not see the ground beneath their feet," Raynor commented, his eyes distant. "No doubt you've seen the images of our siege tanks; one or two shots could destroy your hover-tanks - but I've seen Ultralisks take four - or even five - shots point blank, and still be able rip the tank to shreds."

"While it is impressive that you defeated such an enemy, that still does not qualify your people to tamper in ancient alien technology." Fedorian pointed out, keeping his tone of voice reasonable.

"If I were in your shoes, I'd agree with you," Raynor nodded. "But we've had our share of tinkerin' with alien technology, and the ship that activated the Relay was crewed by some of our best experts."

"What was their experience level?" Quixos questioned. "The 'best experts' is a meaningless term if they are inexperienced."

"Our boys had years of experience working with similar artifacts, though it wasn't Mass Effect technology. They understood the tech well enough to assemble more than a few ancient devices from separate pieces, then get those devices to work."

"Your people seem to have done everything, Marshall," Tevos chuckled lightly. "I'm surprised that you aren't claiming to be Protheans."

"What's a Prothean?" Raynor asked.

Tevos's eyes widened marginally, but Quixos merely nodded, as if he had expected that question.

"Understandable. As you said, your first contact with Mass Effect technology was only three days ago, correct?" Quixos asked.

"That's about right. Why, how important are the Protheans?"

"The Protheans are the creators of the Relay network, along with most Mass Effect technology" Fedorian explained. "As such, most of our technology is derived from what they left behind when they vanished."

"Huh..." Raynor muttered, as he puts a hand to his chin.

Before he could give voice to his thoughts, however, there was a knock at the door, and a turian in black and red armor had entered the room.

"Sorry for the interruption, Councilors, but your other guests have arrived. C-Sec was… _unwilling_ to let their ship dock, but I managed to make them see reason."

"Thank you, Nihlus," Fedorian responded, inclining his head in respect to his fellow turian.

Executor Selendis of the Protoss strode in, nodding once to Tosh as she entered.

"En Taro Tassadar, James Raynor," she greeted.

"En Taro Tassadar, Selendis," Raynor replied. "I should apologize, I caught up in a discussion with the Council and completely forgot to wait for you."

"It is forgiven, James Raynor," Selendis acknowledged. "If I had not been delayed by Citadel Security, I would not have encountered Prince Valerian."

Raynor's eyebrows rose, just as Valerian Mengsk strode through the doorway confidently, bedecked in his full regalia.

"You didn't _really_ think I was dead, did you Marshall?" Valerian asked playfully, as he stopped before Raynor. "You should know better than anyone; it's very difficult to kill a Mengsk."

"Junior." Raynor greeted warmly, a laugh escaping his lips as he slapped Valerian's outstretched hand in a firm handshake. "Hell, if I'd known you were alive, I would've stayed on Shanxi and left all this diplomacy to you."

"Here's hoping that we can wrap this up quickly, then." Valerian murmured in response, a cool smirk lightening his patrician features. "I think that before this is over, I will need a good drink."

"De bar's over dere, Mengsk," Tosh rumbled, twitching his head in the bar's direction.

"That sounds like a good idea," Raynor chuckled, as he turned back to Councilor Tevos. "Why don't we have a quick drink before we start arguing again?"

"Agreed," Fedorian drawled. "I think a situation of this size deserves some _horosk_."

"Hey now," Raynor responded easily, gesturing in good-natured humor. "Let's save that for later – no need to go that hard just yet."

Fedorian stared at Raynor, confused for a moment, before comprehension dawned.

"Of course," Fedorian muttered wryly. "With Kuril as a prisoner, I should have expected that you would know what _horosk_ is."

* * *

"Now that we're all comfortable, shall we resume the discussion?" Valerian Mengsk asked, inclining his head respectfully to Councilor Tevos as he gathered everyone together.

"Of course, Prince Mengsk," Tevos agreed, as she took her seat between Primarch Fedorian and Councilor Quixos, both of whom were clutching small glasses of alcohol.

"Please, call me Valerian," he insisted gently. "I think by the end of this, we will be well acquainted."

"Easy now, Junior," Raynor chided lightly, as he plopped down next to Valerian, his flask in hand.

"May we assume that you are the probable pick for ambassador, then?" Quixos inquired, tilting his head. "One would think that your presence on the _Magellan_ would make you a scientist, not a politician."

"Science is my passion, Councilor, but politics are my life-blood," Valerian replied, grinning slightly.

"Yeah, I'd say so, Junior," Raynor remarked, his voice quiet. "You were raised by the best, after all."

"Actually, Jim," Valerian corrected, "I was raised on Umoja by my mother, and I didn't have much contact with my father until later in life."

"Thank de' gods for dat," Tosh rumbled. "Or you'd'a shared his fate. De only way to remove a weed is ta rip it out 'ole, lest it grow back."

Valerian nodded, his grin fading.

"Indeed, Tosh," he agreed softly. "After all that transpired, I'm very appreciative that I was so distant from my father. Like any man, I prefer staying alive."

"Your father is dead, then?" Fedorian questioned politely. "It sounds like he wasn't particularly well liked."

"Ol' Mengsk deserved his end," Tosh grunted. "I still say a bullet was too good for 'im, Raynor."

"It wasn't your choice to make, Tosh," Raynor countered, his voice low, but with a harsh edge to it. "What's done is done."

The room fell into an uneasy silence for a moment, while Tevos, Quixos, and Fedorian glanced quickly amongst each other.

"The events of the past are long dead, James Raynor," Selendis said, her clear voice cutting through the silence. "Do not regret – without your actions, Koprulu would have burned years ago."

"Forgive me, but… what is 'Koprulu'?" Tevos probed inquiringly. "Your homeworld?"

"No, Councilor, 'Koprulu' is the Koprulu Sector, our old home," Raynor answered. "We left it a few years ago, so that our people could get a fresh start, away from all the blood."

"'From all the blood'?" Fedorian repeated curiously. "A war?"

"The Great War," Selendis murmured, her tone hushed. "A conflict greater in scale than any before. Whole worlds burned and died, Primarch, and billions were consumed. No mere 'war'."

"The destruction of garden worlds is one of the Citadel's most despised actions," Tevos informed them, her voice supportive.

"You don't understand, Councilor – _we_ burned worlds," Raynor told her, his voice tight. "Sometimes, it was the only option we had. That doesn't justify what we did, though… everyone who came out of that damn war was tainted, in their own ways."

"Was this war against the Zerg?" Quixos asked, as he gazed observantly at the Terrans. "From your earlier words, it seems only natural that your two species would ally against them after first contact."

Raynor glanced over at Selendis, before shaking his head slowly.

"Well… that isn't quite thing unfolded," he said vaguely, his eyes distant.

"Oh?" Tevos inquired. "What do you mean?"

"When the Terrans first encountered us, we purified Chau Sara," Selendis informed them calmly.

"What do you mean by… 'purified'?" Fedorian asked, his mandibles tightening as he asked.

"We burned it," Selendis told him, unconcerned.

"My apologies, but… when you first met the Terrans, you _burned_ one of their worlds?" Tevos questioned incredulously. "And yet, now your people are _allies_?"

"The Terrans and the Protoss are not allies."

"Then why are you here, with them?" Fedorian asked, leaning forward. "Why defend them?"

"We came because James Raynor asked for assistance," Selendis answered.

"You brought _two_ dreadnoughts because one man asked for assistance?" Fedorian probed, suspicious. "Forgive me if I'm a little skeptical. One man isn't worth that much."

"Raynor is brother-in-arms to Tassadar himself, Primarch." Selendis snapped stiffly. "His honor is unquestionable."

"Hey, now, let's all just relax a little, okay?" Raynor interrupted, gently waving Selendis down. "Like Tevos said, we're here to talk about peace, not kick off another war. Mind your manners, Selendis."

"To doubt is a crime, Raynor," Selendis insisted. "The Primarch has dishonored you with his words."

"Executor, we are not psionic," Valerian reminded her politely. "Primarch Fedorian had no way of knowing how truthful your words were. Primarch, please try to understand that Protoss culture revolves around their psionic powers – the Protoss do not know ambiguity."

"Do not mistake my purpose, Primarch Fedorian. I am not here to serve as representative of the Protoss," Selendis declared frostily. "I am here solely to provide support for James Raynor. Your… _doubt_… may be… _understandable_, but it is _not_ welcome.

A tense silence filled the well-furnished room, broken only by the sound of drinks being sipped, or in Raynor's case, drained and discarded. Finally, the salarian Councilor Quixos leaned forward, his expression curious.

"…What do you mean by 'psionic'?" he probed.

"Psionics, Councilor, refers to certain individuals who possess unusual abilities that violate the laws of physics as we know them," Valerian explained. "While certain Terrans, such as Tosh, are psionic, the Protoss are a wholly psionic race; that is to say, each and every Protoss is psionic."

"Why does this have to do with doubt?" Tevos questioned, tilting her head quizzically.

"Psionics be telepathic," Tosh informed her, crossing his arms. "We can _sense_ de' truth of t'ings.

Tevos glanced over at Quixos, her expression unreadable, while Fedorian snorted out a huff of breath.

"Impossible," Fedorian denied. "Biotics are capable of bending the laws of physics, but _mind-reading?_ Surely you can't _believe_ this nonsense, Marshall?"

Raynor shrugged, his eyes dimming as he looked into the distance.

"In my experience, a man can believe anythin' he wants." Raynor replied softly. "I used to not believe in the rumors of mind-readers… but then my son got recruited by one. If you don't believe _me_, that's fine – but be careful 'bout doubting the word of a Protoss, 'cause they don't much like that."

"The Protoss do not have the concept of doubt," Valerian added helpfully. "Their culture is incredibly literal – to _doubt _is to give the deepest insult imaginable."

"Then the Executor's words–" Quixos muttered.

"-were _literal_," Valerian confirmed.

There was a moment of silence as the Council digested that information, while Fedorian gave Raynor a look of speculative curiosity.

"Perhaps it's best if we simply move on," Councilor Tevos suggested.

As she spoke, Fedorian opened his mouth once more. In response, Tevos simply glanced over at him, smiling normally. Fedorian shut his mouth, and Raynor revaluated his opinion of the Asari.

"Marshall Raynor, this seems to me to best time to talk about official relations between your people and the Citadel," Tevos continued smoothly, as she leaned forward in her elegant chair.

"Seems to me like this might just be the _only_ time to talk about official relations, depending on how this all plays out," Raynor returned, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

Tevos laughed, her voice light and pleasing to hear.

"Indeed, Marshall," she smiled. "But that doesn't mean we should ignore the possibilities before us. In addition to any reparations we agree upon later, I would like to offer Shanxi an embassy on the Citadel, as an associate member of the Council."

"What all would that entail?" Raynor asked, eyes narrowed as his smile slid away, revealing a focused expression.

"Associate status in the Council confers numerous economic benefits, including reduced tariffs on Element Zero and related materials, as well as inclusion into numerous academic, social and political organizations across the entirety of the galaxy," Quixos rattled off precisely, as Valerian nodded in time. "However, associate status does not equate to receiving a seat on the Council. In addition, you must agree to sign the Citadel Conventions, including the Treaty of Farixen."

"Could you clarify these… 'Citadel Conventions'?" Valerian requested politely.

"Certainly – the Citadel Conventions govern and limit usage of weapons of mass destruction, to prevent the destruction or devastation of garden worlds. While the galaxy contains millions of planets, very few are habitable, even with large-scale terraforming, and the permanent loss of one is… horrific. Exception do exist – hostile worlds, space stations, etc," Quixos described, his voice steady as he matched glances with Valerian.

"Sounds simple enough," Raynor commented, nodding. "I don't think we'll have any problems with that. What about this 'Treaty of Firaxen'?"

"Treaty of Farixen," Tevos corrected kindly. "The Treaty serves a similar purpose to the Convention, namely, to limit destructive capability by limiting the creation of dreadnoughts."

"That'd be a vessel longer that eight hunn'erd meters, correct?" Raynor inquired, glancing over at Selendis, who seemed content to remain silent. "I suppose there's some kind of ratio so that _your_ fleet has the edge, right?"

"Of course," Fedorian replied. "The Citadel Fleet enforces peace amongst the stars, so we must be capable of preventing a war by any means necessary."

"Dat might be a problem," Tosh murmured, shaking his head slowly. "We don' like bein' held back."

"You must understand our reluctance," Valerian added in apologetically. "Our people have bad memories of dictatorships in our recent history. As such, I think we'll need some additional details. What is the exact ratio, if I may ask?"

"All associate Council members are allowed one dreadnought for every three of the Asari Republics and Salarian Union, and for every five of the Turian Hierarchy," Tevos informed them.

Raynor scowled at that.

"And how dreadnoughts does your government have, Primarch?" he questioned, switching his gaze back to the well-dressed turian.

"At this time, the Hierarchy has thirty-four dreadnoughts," Fedorian answered, brushing the collar of his immaculate vest as he spoke. "Another is in construction, and so you would be allowed seven dreadnoughts. I assume that won't be a problem?"

"It ain't a massive problem – for the moment, at least." Raynor replied, sidestepping the Primarch's unspoken challenge. "But I'm thinking that might be a problem for the Protoss."

"There is no problem, James Raynor," Selendis answered, her melodic voice patient. "The Protoss will not be seeking membership into the Council."

"Ah," Raynor replied simply, nodding. "Well, that wraps that up."

"Are you sure, Executor?" Tevos asked curiously, her expression puzzled. "While our technology appears to be primitive compared to your own, there are other benefits to joining the Council. Our cultures could learn much from each other."

Selendis regarded the Asari for a moment, her burning blue eyes linking to the Councilor's own.

"You are not capable of understanding our culture," Selendis replied dismissively. "The Protoss do not concern themselves with other species – though we once served as wardens for the stars, we must now focus inwards, and have no need for any interaction."

The Council members looked amongst themselves, perplexed, for a moment, before Tevos leaned forward again, her expression curious.

"Your people were wardens?" Tevos repeated curiously. "Does that mean that you served as guardians or caretakers?"

"Indeed, Councilor," Selendis nodded benevolently. "But that time has passed. It is time for the Protoss to look inward. There is no longer any reason for the Khalai to wander the stars."

"Very well, Executor. That is your decision to make, but I feel that I should warn you – though the Council understands your reasons, the common people of the galaxy are suspicious of isolationism."

"The Protoss understand, but that does not change our decision. Were I within the reach of the Khala, I would convey your words to all Khalai."

"Wait, if you were within the reach of the 'Khala'?" Tevos repeated, holding up a hand as she tilted her head. "What does that mean?"

Instead of replying, Selendis tilted her head, imitating Councilor Tevos perfectly.

For a moment, Tevos felt a shiver of fear race down her spine, as the Protoss's burning eyes stared into her own.

"The Khala is the communal bond of the Protoss," Selendis answered. "Through the Khala, all Khalai can share their thoughts, memories, and feelings, across the void of space. It is the perfect state of being."

"Well, I don't know 'bout _perfect. _Personally, I'd rather not have people running around in my head," Raynor shrugged. "But the Protoss make it work, so I can't really complain. 'Sides, that's their business, not mine."

Tevos massaged her temples as Selendis began to debate the finer points of Psionic Communism with Raynor.

"You mean to tell me," Tevos said slowly, straining to keep a calm tone, "that not only can the Protoss duplicate Asari Melding, but they can do this _across planets_?"

"Yes," Selendis answered frankly, inclining her head. "Not across the entire galaxy, but within a sector is entirely possible."

"Raynor, are you _sure_ the Protoss aren't Prothean?" Tevos muttered, before letting out a deep sigh of exasperation.

"Not to be the skeptic, but I still must express some doubt at this," Fedorian said, uncrossing his arms and raising a talon to forestall Selendis's reply. "I'm not doubting your words, but if the Protoss are as advanced as we seem to think they are, then how is it you have never heard of the Protheans?"

"Advanced technology does not always indicate age, Primarch," Valerian countered politely. "Space is quite vast, after all, and no one has informed us of exactly _when_ the Protheans were exploring the stars. Clearly, they are no longer present in the galaxy, which means that it may simply be the case that the Protoss began exploring the stars long after the Protheans vanished."

"Speakin' about dat," Tosh chimed in, his tone thoughtful, "any chance dat we know _why_ de Protheans vanished? I don' like de thought dat a whole species just disappeared."

"It's not as if it's without precedent, Tosh," Valerian replied, shaking his head. "Look at the Xel'Naga – they left hundreds of ruins behind in Koprulu, and not even the Protoss know how they died; or, for that matter, if they even _are _dead."

Raynor frowned, and for a brief second, his eyes unfocused, lost in his memories, while Tevos carefully noted his lapse in concentration.

"You aren't the first person to say something along those lines," Quixos commented understandingly. "Why do you think the field of xeno-archeology exists?"

"As it happens, I am a xeno-archeologist," Valerian remarked, smiling faintly.

"If it helps, known Prothean ruins date from seventy-five to fifty thousand years of age – though nothing after fifty thousand years ago," Quixos continued, resting his chin on his folded hands.

"Our exploration was later, after your 'Protheans' had vanished," Selendis responded, nodding once. "Thus it is not surprising that we did not know of them."

"Well, that clears that up," Valerian said with a tone of finality, taking a drink from his glass. "Now, shall we move onto the matter of the cease-fire agreement, as well as formal establishment of negotiations between our people?"

Raynor sighed deeply, before taking a long pull at his flask as Valerian talked to the Councilors.  
"Not interested, Marshall?" Fedorian murmured, flashing a quick grin at Raynor's obvious discomfort.

"I'm infantry, Primarch," Raynor replied quietly. "Times like this, I wish that I had _stayed_ in the infantry."

Fedorian chuckled softly.

"Perhaps our people have more in common than I thought," Fedorian responded musingly.

* * *

The door _clicked_ quietly as it locked, sealing itself with a _hiss_ and locking the three inhabitants of the room inside. It wasn't the Primarch's office, but it was the most secure room he could find under the circumstances, and he wasn't going to complain.

Wearily, Primarch Fedorian inspected the two generals before him, before sighing.

"Do you want to explain to me _exactly_ what you were thinking?" he asked, draping his formal jacket over the back of a chair and turning his back on them.

The distant skyline of the Citadel stretched out into the purple 'fog' of the Serpent Nebula. On impulse, Fedorian reached down and typed a command on the disused keypad. The window – which wasn't _really_ a window, not under this much armor plating – flickered, and the purple 'fog' faded away. All he had done was remove the false, non-existent color, and yet… looking into the darkness of space, Fedorian felt… peaceful.

The two turian generals glanced at each other as their Primarch stared off into empty space, the stark contrast of one in dirty under-armor fatigues and the other in neat full dress uniform sticking out in Fedorian's mind.

While it was true that a good turian understood the chain of command, an experienced trooper usually preferred to side with the officer who had 'gotten stuck in', so to speak – despite the fact that 'getting stuck in' had no bearing on whether or not that officer was in the right. A stupid officer could get dirty just as easily as an intelligent one, in his experience.

But for all his years of politicking, Fedorian couldn't shake that simple, illogical thought.

General Oraka shifted uneasily on his feet, then stepped forward.

"Primarch, I acted to improve the Hierarchy-"

"Not you," Fedorian said, not turning around.

Snapping his mandibles shut, Oraka stepped back.

There was silence for a moment, before Kuril took a step forward.

"Well, General Kuril?"

"I was saving my men, Primarch," Kuril informed Fedorian, his arms still clasped behind him in parade rest. "Men who know how the Terrans fight. Men who can still serve their Hierarchy."

"I asked what you were _thinking_, Kuril," Fedorian replied. "Not what you were doing."

"Would that be before or after the Terrans parked a cruiser in front of my command center?" Kuril questioned, his tone unwavering, despite his bold words. "Before, I was concerned that none of us would survive – that the Eighth Division would be killed to a man. After, I was professionally considering the pros and cons of using a cruiser as an assault lander."

"And what conclusion did you reach?" Fedorian inquired, as his mandibles twitched.

"I determined that the only efficient way to unload all ground forces would be through an assault ramp, similar to the one the Terrans used – however, that would leave a major structural weakness, as it would require a large holding bay that our cruisers currently do not have."

"So, it is a clumsy idea that relies on specific circumstances and a high amount of _luck_," Fedorian concluded. "And yet, that insane idea took the city. Otherwise, excluding orbital bombardment, which you could not reasonably defeat under the situation, the fighting would have gone on much longer."

"As you say, Primarch," Kuril said.

Fedorian sighed once more, and then turned around to face the two generals before him.

"Gentlemen, I am disappointed," he told them. "While this excursion may have gained us numerous technological innovations, it has cost us far more than any possible gain."

"Requesting permission to speak, Primarch?" Oraka asked, standing stiffly at attention.

"Granted," Fedorian allowed, honing his gaze on the immaculately dressed General.

"As you said, we have gained numerous technologies due to this incident," Oraka repeated, his tone patient. "Functional laser technology of sufficient power to defeat conventional ablative armor, nonfunctional examples of alternative FTL travel, and many more, all of which are not based on Element Zero. I think-"

"No, you don't," Fedorian interrupted, glaring at him. "That is _exactly _the problem – you didn't consider what this little 'incident' has cost us. It cost us our _credibility_. The 'peacekeepers' of the Citadel have just _attacked_ another species. Citadel Law may justify your actions, but that does not change the facts; one of which is that you attacked a group of highly advanced _refugees_."

Oraka gritted his mandibles as Fedorian stalked forward.

"You have lost us the _one thing_ that we cannot recover – our undisputed role of peacekeepers. Do you understand this? The next executor of C-Sec might be a _salarian_, or Spirits-forbid, an _asari_. The law is _harsh_ for a reason – and now there is talk of an asari taking command of C-Sec, which means relaxation of enforcement, which in turn means increased crimes. Tell me, General Oraka, do you understand this?"

"I do, Primarch," Oraka answered stiffly.

Fedorian inspected his face for a moment, looking for the slightest sign of weakness.

"I believe you – but that, as I said before, does not change the facts. You are lucky, Oraka, that the Terrans are not openly calling for your head," Fedorian lectured. "Kuril, do you think they would?"

"I am unsure, Primarch," Kuril replied diplomatically.

"Speak freely, Kuril," Fedorian said. "That's an order."

Kuril paused, before nodding once.

"James Raynor seemed like an honorable man to me, sir. While I cannot vouch for his mercy, I do not think he would hold a grudge. While interrogating me, he was polite and personable – and, as my report mentioned, there was no mistreatment or torture of any of my personnel," Kuril explained.

"Answer the question, Kuril."

"…No, Primarch. I don't think he would."

Fedorian nodded, before turning back to Oraka.

"Do you know why we merged the offices of individual Primarchs into one single office, General Oraka?" Fedorian asked.

Oraka blinked, his expression shifting slightly into confusion, before returning to its formal stiffness.

"I am not sure, Primarch," he admitted. "I was not informed, and saw no reason to inquire."

"It was because we didn't _need_ multiple Primarchs," Fedorian explained. "Each Primarch was in charge of a colonization cluster – but what did that Primarch actually _do_? Either of you, what did they do?"

Kuril and Oraka glanced at each other for a moment, but neither spoke up.

"_That_ is why we merged the offices. Criminal matters were under control of the colonial executor, and the same was true of taxation, bureaucracy, and militaristic matters – each under control of their respective chain of command. The Primarch was only to be notified of a major problem. Until then, he trusts that _each_ and _every _turian will do his job efficiently and professionally."

Fedorian paused, gazing at both of them with resigned weariness.

"This is a major problem – which means that the job was not handled efficiently _or_ professionally. No, I'm not talking about you, Kuril. I'm talking about _you_, General Oraka. You have failed in your duty as a General of the Turian Hierarchy. You may consider yourself relieved of command."

Oraka swallowed hard, but nodded firmly. Fedorian tried not to notice how Kuril's own expression morphed into a tight smile at Oraka's misfortune.

"As for you, Kuril… I don't know what to do with you. On one hand, you conducted your campaign professionally, as befitting the Eighth Division. On the other, your conduct was unbecoming – specifically, broadcasting a message despite knowing full well that Oraka had already left the system, which not only showed your rashness, but also risked secure turian comm. frequencies.

"No doubt, I have men who will support your actions. However, those actions showed a lack of respect for the Hierarchy, as well as its command structure. I will decide what to do with you later, I suppose."

The three turians stood there for a long, quiet moment. Oraka turned, his face downcast, and began to move to door.

"A moment, if you please, Oraka?"

Oraka paused more out of surprise than obedience, as Kuril stepped forward, his eyes hard.

"While I was the prisoner of Jim Raynor, I learned quite a few lessons from him," Kuril said conversationally, his eyes never leaving Oraka's. "Afterwards, when he told me how many of my men were still alive, he taught me another."

Kuril's hand smashed into Oraka's chin, a primal haymaker that sent the former general crashing into the wall.

In a flash, Kuril was on Oraka again, one hand snaring the formal dress tunic and the other hanging in front of his face.

"Your mistake may have cost you your rank, Oraka," Kuril said quietly, "but it cost my men their _lives_."

With a grunt, Kuril released Oraka's uniform, dropping the wide-eyed turian on the ground.

Fedorian watched for a long moment, his talon hovering over the button that would summon his security, before slowly setting it down.

"You realize, Kuril, that what you just did might have cost you your rank?" Fedorian demanded, barely able to keep himself from snarling.

Kuril scowled, stepping away from Oraka's huddled form.

"It was worth it, sir," he replied, meeting Fedorian's eyes unflinchingly.

Without waiting to be dismissed, Kuril snapped out a salute, then walked away.

* * *

"You know, that ended faster'n I thought I would," Raynor remarked, not turning from his position by the large bay window, gazing down at the silently rotating orb of Shanxi, far 'below' the _Hyperion_.

"Hardly, Jim – the negotiation over terraforming took _ages_," Valerian argued, rubbing his temples softly. "If that is the standard of negotiation on the Citadel, it is a wonder that they get anything done."

"If you're going to argue, get off my bridge," Matt Horner interrupted, shooting the pair a bemused look.

"Oh, come off it, Matt. Look at the bright side: we've got peace, plenty of negotiating room, and they're scared of the Protoss."

"Uh… Marshall, _everyone's_ scared of the Protoss," Lieutenant Hall pointed out from her command console.

"A fair point, darlin'," Raynor admitted. "But _dammit_, why shouldn't we be happy? We're finally out in the clear after leavin' Koprulu. I think we're entitled to a little peace an' quiet."

Tosh chuckled darkly, spinning his knife around absentmindedly as he leaned on the ornate gilded holo-chart.

"You know 'ow dat kind of t'ing works out for us, boss-man," the Spectre commented. "Sooner or later, we gon' be back in de shit. Wit' our luck? It be a certain t'ing."

Raynor grunted, his smile slowly disappearing.

"I know, Tosh," he said softly. "Believe me, I know."

The room fell silent as all eyes looked to the Marshall, but Raynor didn't speak again. Instead, he raised his fist, resting his arm on the armaglass window.

"We've taken losses, people. One hundred and sixty thousand people – and that ain't a number to take lightly. Down there, everyone's wonderin' what's gonna happen next. I've got commanders askin' me for orders… and for the first time, I get to tell them to go home."

Lieutenant Cade twisted in his seat to get a better look at Raynor. Valerian looked up from his seat by the holo-chart. Tosh's knife came to a halt, and the burly Spectre's eyes glowed, as if absorbing Raynor's words.

Matt Horner depressed a button, and Raynor's words echoed throughout the _Hyperion_'s cavernous structure.

Raynor smiled, nodding to Matt as he turned around, facing the attentive bridge crew.

"We've got an opportunity before us. Those of us who can should focus on our families – not because we might not have that chance later, but because it's finally time to set down our guns. I… I don't quite know what to do, now that we're done fighting.

"I suppose I should make some kind of promise to constantly protect Shanxi – so that no one can ever harm us again – but… I _can't_. I'm not in the habit of promisin' impossible things. More than ever, we need to realize that our enemies can turn into friends.

"Fightin' for vengeance ain't right. Arcturus Mengsk fed Tarsonis to the Zerg in revenge for Korhal; I don't want to see the same thing happen here, against the turians. We've been fighting for so long for a goal that seemed impossible: a free, peaceful place to live. As Marshall, I'll do my best to make sure that it _stays_ that way – or die tryin', if that's what it takes."

Silently, Raynor chopped his hand across in a cutting motion. Obligingly, Matt turned off the broadcast.

"Well?" Raynor demanded with a slight smile, looking at each awestruck face in turn. "What're y'all lookin' at?"

Matt chuckled, sparking off a round of laughter from the crew as Raynor simply shook his head in amusement.

"No offense intended, Commander," Matt said. "You know how highly the crew thinks of you – I wouldn't be surprised if Swann had already broadcast that speech down to the planet."

"They need it," Raynor dismissed calmly. "The people have a right to know, Matt."

"Speaking of which, we should get Mike Liberty up here, Jim," Valerian mentioned. "Now that we've wrapped everything important up with the Council, we should make sure that the people hear about it."

"I t'ink you be more concerned wit' which reporter 'e sends up," Tosh teased lightly, grinning.

Valerian flushed red for a moment.

"I assure you, my relationship with Kate is purely professional," he tried to defend, only for Raynor and Matt to exchanging smirks.

"It's 'Kate' now, Junior?" Raynor pointed out.

"We… may have gone on a few dates," Valerian admitted, as Tosh rumbled with laughter.

"Hey, there ain't nothin' wrong with that, Valerian," Jim shrugged.

"Commander, incoming Warp transit!" Lieutenant Cade barked suddenly. "Size reading is large, probably a battlecruiser! She's coming in six hundred thousand kilometers off the port bow!"

Matt Horner was at the holo-chart instantly, bringing up the tac-chart with a flurry of typed commands.

"Wait…" Matt murmured. "That's the _Ragnarök_ – but she should have left when we did-"

"-so why is she back so soon?" Raynor finished, his eyes narrowing.

* * *

Six hundred thousand kilometers away, space was still and silent.

Then lightning flickered, dancing impossibly in the void of space, before vanishing into a nonexistent hole.

With a flash, the lightning appeared _again_, bursting forth in a blaze of blue-white as space _stretched_, and the _Ragnarök_, emerged, bursting out of warp space.

Seconds later, a com. signal pinged the looming battlecruiser.

"Commander Raynor," Captain Sebastian Beauregard greeted, as the holographic image of the _Hyperion_'s bridge sprang to life.

"Sebastian," Raynor replied curtly. "Matt briefed me on your mission. Report."

"The _Ragnarök_'s trip to Haven is incomplete, sir," Sebastian informed him. "When we were a few hours out, we had to drop out of warp for a few slight repairs to our exterior hull, when we encountered a Protoss scout-interceptor."

"A Protoss scout?" Matt repeated, leaning forward. "What was it doing all the way out here? With Selendis gone, there shouldn't be any Protoss away from Shakuras."

"That's what we said, sir," Sebastian replied. "Apparently, this one was serving as a guide."

"A _guide_?" Raynor muttered. "What for?"

Sebastian coughed uneasily.

"It appears that the Protoss were growing… annoyed with the number of refugees on Haven, and apparently offered to guide them to Shanxi," Sebastian told them. "With their ETA, they should be arriving approximately an hour from now."

"How many refugees are we talking about, Captain?" Matt questioned.

"Roughly… five million," Sebastian said, wincing as he did. "They're using whatever ships they can find to flee the sector, and some of those bulk cruisers and colony ships have been stripped bare of anything other than the essentials."

"Five… million," Raynor said slowly, testing the number out loud. "We should be to handle that many – throw down some barracks as temporary housing, then settle them in the grasslands south of Shanxi City. It'll be rough, but it's possible."

Sebastian winced again.

"What's wrong, Captain?" Matt asked, noting the wince.

"Unfortunately, those five million are the ones who had already left – supposedly, there is anything from one hundred to two hundred _million_ still on Haven," Sebastian revealed.

"The Protoss… don't like having that many Terrans so close to Shakuras," Raynor sighed. "Which means we're going to have to move them over here."

"It looks that way, sir," Sebastian confirmed, nodding sympathetically.

Raynor shook his head, and then frowned, as if he had just realized something.

"Valerian," he called, turning to someone outside of the picture. "After I left the negotiations, did you discuss colonization rights, by any chance?"

"…No… we didn't quite think we _needed_ to, at that time," Valerian said.

"I think you're gonna have to hitch a ride back to the Citadel, then. We're going to need more room for all these people eventually, so we might as well do that now," Raynor explained.

Sebastian politely ignored Valerian's muffled groan.

* * *

**Codex - Terrans - Alliance**

A political-economic pact for collective colonial security, the **Terran Alliance** is the central **government** for the **Terran** people. Initially consisting solely of the **colony** of **Shanxi**, the Alliance has grown with the steady flow of **refugees** from the **Koprulu Sector**.

In modern times (**2532**), the Terran Alliance consists of the seven major colonies: Shanxi, **Elysium**, **New Korhal**,** Eden Prime, Therum, Bekenstein, **and** New Canton**. Each colony is governed by a representative democracy, headed by a **Magistrate**. The Terran Alliance itself has no official **Head of State**, and matters of interstellar politics are handled by the Magistrates via **video-conferencing**.

Though the Terran Alliance is composed of the seven major colonies, all colonies, official or unofficial, are allowed to openly meet with the Magistrates - official status of membership is conferred when a colony begins to be governed by a Magistrate, rather than a socio-economic limit - thus, each Terran colony chooses when they will join the Alliance, and there is no penalty for refusing to join. Numerous independent Terran colonies exist, notably in the **Attican Traverse** and **Skyllian Verge**, as well as the **Terminus Systems**. It is worth noting that while these independent colonies are not a part of the Terran Alliance, each colony is part of an unofficial pact of mutual defense, and will come to aid each other.

Terran political-economic relationships vary between combative and lucrative, due to the bizarre mismatch of **technology** that the Terran use, most of which was developed without the usage of **Element Zero** or the **Mass Effect**. The Terran **Warp Drive**, for instance, is one of the most highly prized Terran innovations, alongside highly advanced **Terraforming **techniques.

As of 2532, the total Terran **population** has been approximated at roughly two **billion**. Culturally, Terrans are noted for their laid-back mannerisms, easily forgiving natures, and generous attitude concerning friends. The Terran people have no official standing **military**, choosing instead to use **Asari**-styled militia groups that defend their homes - however, it is generally agreed that these militias can join together seamlessly to form a cohesive whole if the Terran people are threatened.


End file.
